Metamorphosis
by Quartic Moose
Summary: noun: 'a change in the form or nature of a person or thing into a completely different one, by natural or supernatural means.' (Second in 'Don't Listen to Kafka,' follows Autoeponym). Barbara just wants her son to be safe, Jim just wants to go back to normal, and Bular just wants to free his father to subjugate the surface world, is that too much to ask?
1. Chapter 1

Second in the series _Don't Listen to Kafka,_ begins a couple weeks after Autoeponym. This story begins with the events of the episode'Young Atlas'

story content warnings: mild body horror (but no gore), species dysphoria. (if there are more you think I should at, let me know)

* * *

 _"One advantage to keeping a diary is that you become aware with reassuring clarity of all the changes which you constantly suffer." -_ Franz Kafka

* * *

Barbara's new reality looked something like this:

Jim still made lunch for her and Toby, but now she was the one to make lunch for Jim. It was impossible for him to eat with the glamor mask on; mealtimes were the only times she saw him remove it (otherwise, she had no doubt he wouldn't take it off at all). This naturally presented a bit of a problem at school, but they figured out it was still possible for him to drink through a straw, so highly specialized protein shakes became the order of the day. Barbara took over making them after Jim decided he didn't want to know what went in them (it was probably the bait worms that did it, when Barbara brought some home on Mr. Blinky's suggestion.)

The house was always dimly lit, once she'd gone out and bought the best light-blocking curtains on the market. The complete lack of natural light wore at her, sometimes, though she'd never admit it. It was like living in a box, no sunshine, no breezes through an open window, but it was necessary. Sure, she could open things up and air the house out if Jim was out and Draal stayed in the basement, but more often than not she didn't want to risk forgetting to close them again. She offered to have Jim's window boarded up just to be extra safe, but Draal vetoed the idea for tactical reasons; it wouldn't be safe to leave Jim without an avenue of escape if the house were invaded.

Jim didn't have a curfew anymore. He hadn't really had one before, either, but there had been an honor system in place where they both agreed that ten o'clock was a reasonable time to be home. Now, with his Trollhunting duties, even that guideline went out the window. Instead, if Trollhunting kept him out late, she promised she'd write him a note excusing his tardiness the next day so that he could sleep in (8 hours of sleep minimum was critical for growing teenagers).

(She worried about his sleeping habits, worried that he exaggerated how much restful sleep he was actually getting. Even on the nights he stayed home, he often woke up looking tired, exhausted. His body's changes were playing havoc with his circadian rhythm, and she didn't know what more she could do).

He was expected to keep her updated on his whereabouts. He let her know when he was leaving for patrol and what time he expected to be back. There was a city map pinned to one wall of their basement – Team Trollhunter had already crossed off what they felt were the most likely places the changelings could be hiding Killahead Bridge, and now they were searching Arcadia in a grid pattern, randomized so that any watching changelings would not be able to predict their movements. More than once Jim had come home to vent to Barbara about how frustrating the constant fruitless searching was.

She tried to spend at least a half hour a day learning troll lore and language. Sometimes it happened in the morning, sometimes in the evening. If Jim was around, he used his amulet to read aloud from _A Brief Recapitulation of Troll Lore._ (The translation function was very handy, though not for proofing his Spanish homework. It could translate what he'd written into English, but only, apparently, after running it through Trollspeak first, and the results were often unintentionally comical. 'I cannot vacation my fork,' indeed. They'd had a good laugh about it.)

If Jim wasn't around, Draal would translate for her. He had a very nice reading voice, though he went slowly, often silently reading a sentence or two through in its entirety before speaking. That was only to be expected; just because a person was bilingual did not automatically grant them the training of a skilled translator. Draal also offered his own recollections and insights into troll culture, which were very useful, and Barbara enjoyed the opportunities to get to know him as a person better.

She cancelled all of Jim's pending medical appointments, and brushed off the MRI results when the doctor called back, concerned. She claimed she'd taken Jim somewhere else for a second opinion, just to be sure, and that he was getting treatment there. Taking over as his primary care physician, she had at first wanted to conduct daily check-ups to try to keep track of Jim's ever-shifting baseline, but when she saw how the scrutiny exacerbated Jim's anxiety, she forced herself to dial back Dr. Lake as much as possible, and push Mom to the foreground. Ultimately, she had to concede that more data would likely not have done them a bit of good, since with each new observation she had no idea what was a problem and what was his new normal. Still, she fretted.

Figuring out how to balance his diet was an ongoing struggle. He'd show signs of anemia if he didn't eat enough mushrooms, but also if he ate less than two dimes in a week. Citrus gave him headaches; too much gluten gave him gas. Mr. Blinky had been concerned that Jim wasn't getting enough silicates, so Barbara had started adding sand to the protein shakes. She's started small, just half a tablespoon, but the improvement to Jim's energy levels was so immediate that soon enough she was adding a half a cup of sand to every smoothie. The FoodMagic was really being put through its paces.

He couldn't have shakes for every meal, however, because as nutritional as the shakes were, Jim still longed for things he could sink his teeth into (Barbara was quick to reassure him that anyone would feel the same if they had to give up solid food, it was not some weird troll thing), a craving that only got worse once his new teeth started growing in. Teething as a two-year old had been bad enough, but now he had the jaw strength to deal serious damage; Barbara searched online reviews to find the most indestructible dog toys, and even those lasted at best a week.

Toby reported that Jim got particularly restless at school, where there were very few outlets for his need to bite. The fact that the mask limited his ability to fit things in his mouth was probably a blessing, as it might have been all that stood between Jim and the whiteboard erasers. Honestly, it was only a matter of time before one of his teachers noticed him eating his pencils (which, like straws, were narrow enough to squeeze under the mask). She'd started buying by the gross once he'd reached the point of going through a pack a day.

Things gradually settled into a new normal (they still had their ups and downs, but that was normal too), until Barbara came home one evening, took one look at Jim's face, and knew something was Wrong.

"What happened?" she dropped her bag straight on the floor, not bothering to hang it up properly.

He looked shocky, dazed, and there was a slight tremor in his hands – adrenaline crash? His eyes were wide and it took him a moment to focus on her "So. I fought Bular today."

"Oh my god, Jim, are you alright?!" She began examining him for injuries, but he gently guided her hands away.

"I'm fine."

"I'll be there judge of that." She eyed him critically, but realized that with the glamor mask on, he could be disemboweled for all she knew. She tapped his chin. "Mask off."

He grumbled but complied, and pulled off his now-visible wide-brimmed sunhat while he was at it. She went to fetch her first aid bag, and snapped on a pair of sterile gloves.

"Any knocks to the head?" (if his armor wasn't going to provide anything to protect his skull, he should consider wearing his bike helmet, it would be better than nothing).

"Um." Either he didn't remember because adrenaline made his recollection of the fight's details blurry, or he was uncertain because he _had_ taken a blow to his head and it had affected his memory.

Tipping his head down so she could see, for a moment she thought he had a really bad goose egg on the top of his head, but then recognized his horn growth for what it was. She hadn't had a close look in a while; Jim kept them well-covered whenever he had to take the mask off. They hadn't broken through yet; the skin on top was stretched tight, white and dead-looking. Hopefully that meant he wouldn't bleed too much when they did finally erupt. Besides those lumps, she didn't see any contusions, which was a relief.

She tried to check his pupil response; he snarled and flinched away from her penlight.

"Try to stay still this time, I need to check for concussion."

He managed it, with just a soft growl, and his pupils contracted evenly, though it was almost hard to see underneath reflective yellow eye-shine, like a cat. That was new.

Satisfied that he didn't have a brain injury, she continued her exam. She felt his ribs for cracks and bruises, listened to his breathing, checked the range of motion in his shoulders, where he was most likely to pull something, swinging that sword around.

At last confident that he wasn't going to keel over from internal hemorrhaging anytime soon, she let him duck into the kitchen to work off his lingering stress. After putting away the first aid kit, she followed.

"What are you making tonight?"

"Pork chops with yellow-pepper puttanesca. I got a couple really nice ones at the farmers market last week. "

"Oh, is it a new recipe?" It didn't sound familiar.

"Yeah. I've made puttanesca before, but not with bell peppers – this is a good season for them. Probably going to use up the last of the capers… "

He trailed off, talking more to himself than Barbara at that point. The transformation that came over Jim when he was cooking was almost incandescent. His shoulders relaxed, his movements became lighter, more fluid; when he was fully at ease he sometimes hummed, though tonight he wasn't yet at that point. At the moment, he was completely engrossed in prepping the bell peppers, swaying slightly as he worked.

Her attention was drawn to his hands, rinsing the vegetables in the sink – he'd taken his ever-present gloves off for the task, and she was not yet accustomed to the blue-gray skin that had appeared wherever his sunburns had peeled. She'd meant to look away, to stop staring, but instead her eyes caught on something, a mark on the still flesh-colored skin of his forearm.

Parallel lines of bruises encircling his right wrist, and without a thought she moved forward to push his sleeve up, revealing the full handprint of broken capillaries. The _five-fingered_ handprint.

Not Bular. How many fingers did changelings have? Or was it… a human?

"Who did this?" she hissed, _"Who grabbed you?"_

"What?" Jim startled, confused, reflexively jerking his arm back. The motion caused him to wince, and he finally noticed the bruises. "No one! I mean, those are from Toby, when he _saved my life._ He probably has a matching set from where I grabbed him back."

"What _happened_? Why were you even fighting Bular?!" When Jim came home unscathed, that was enough for her, and she didn't want the details of how close it had been. It was a selfish desire, and she felt bad for feeling it, but it was honestly the only way she could cope with it all. She hoped that someday soon she would be strong enough to help shoulder more of the weight Jim carried, but for the time being, the idea of Jim being in mortal peril was still new enough that it cut her deeply every time she thought of it – and Jim noticed. So he gave sanitized and watered-down accounts, and she despised the part of her that was grateful.

When Jim came home safe, everything was fine and she didn't pry. When he came home injured - dredging up all the feelings of inadequacy and powerlessness she fought daily to ignore - then the good sense that said she'd be happier not knowing went out the window, and she _needed to know._

Jim picked up the dropped pepper (fortunately it had landed in the sink) and began slicing it. He kept his attention on his task as he started to explain, about feeling nervous and the grit-shaka (oh, she was going to have _words_ with Draal), and his reckless not-even-half-baked plan to confront Bular, and about Toby pulling him to safety.

"Mom, he said something, he said – Mom, _Strickler_ is a _changeling."_

She took an involuntary step back, not sure if she heard correctly, trying to process.

Walter Call-me-Walt Strickler was a changeling, a shape-shifting troll. She had, unbeknownst to her, flirted with a troll. (She forcefully admonished herself, because _that_ wasn't the issue at hand. Trolls were _people_ , and her increasingly-trollish son was counting on her to internalize that down to her bones.)

Walter Strickler was a changeling, and Jim had found this out when fighting Bular. That would suggest that Strickler was working _with_ Bular, and was not, in fact, just another troll like the ones Barbara had met in Trollmarket, albeit one who just so happened to have the ability to take on human form.

( _were_ there any good changelings? The way Jim talked about them, it didn't sound like it. Why was that? Where did changelings come from, for that matter? – she'd only gotten to up to volume two of _A Brief Recap_ , she knew next to nothing about changelings)

Walter – Jim's history teacher, who had showed such concern for his well-being – was in fact working to undermine her son specifically, and humanity in general. He was part of a faction actively seeking to kill her son.

And… he had been _nice_. He was an excellent conversationalist, and he took a genuine interest in what Barbara had to say. She'd met him for coffee several times after Jim and Toby's museum break-in (an altogether reckless adventure, even if it had been justified), and it had made her feel more like herself than she had in a long time. She'd felt like a _person_ again, someone with thoughts and opinions, who was more than just the job she could perform. In fact she'd been entertaining the idea of inviting him over for dinner after a couple more weeks.

She'd been putting it off, wanting to make sure things were really getting serious with Walt, because bringing a man home to have dinner with her and her son was a Big Deal. It had been five years since – no, longer, Jim had been ten when she'd started dating Ted, so six years since she'd last brought someone over.

Barbara didn't date much. It wasn't a matter of 'not being over her ex,' as many had insinuated or outright said. She had Jim, and she had the clinic; krav maga classes on Wednesdays, when her schedule permitted, and sometimes she even squeezed in time for hobbies. Her life was full and fulfilling, and it wanted for nothing.

But she didn't live in a bubble. Sometimes, in the course of her life, being out and about, she'd meet someone she wanted to get to know better. Sometimes, those people were put off by the fact that she and Jim were a package deal, but then those people weren't worth her time. The ones who expressed earnest interest in how Jim was doing (not just perfunctory courtesy), those were the ones she'd ask out a second time, because they weren't thinking of Jim as something to be tolerated, but as a person who would be as much a part of their life as Barbara might be.

Jim had made a face when Barbara had first asked Walter out, but she'd thought he'd just needed time to warm up to the idea that his mother was dating _anyone_ , and not a specific complaint against Walter. She knew how much of a disruption it would be to both their lives for her to start dating, which was why she was so particular about bringing someone home. Their house was very much a shared space between the two of them (she was proud of the fact that she had never once used the expression 'my house, my rules,' or any derivative thereof), and she didn't want to be someone who kept bringing new boyfriends home and putting the expectation on Jim that he'd make nice with people who he had not chosen to bring into in his life (the problem with Ted, in hindsight, was that he'd acted like he and Jim were already friends, instead of putting in the effort to actually _become_ friends).

So the fact that she'd enjoyed Walt's company enough to continue their coffee dates, to consider bringing him home for dinner… the fact that she'd been able to foresee a future for the two of them… that all _mattered_.

And all the while, that slimy sonnuva was after her son, was… was _using_ her to get close to him, or mess with him, or… whatever other plan he had, too devious for Barbara to even conceive.

It was a shock – a deep, vicious and visceral betrayal. But it wasn't as big a shock as trolls had been, she told herself firmly; she could get over it (and could resolutely ignore the little voice that whispered nastily that Barbara Lake just had terrible taste in men.)

"Mom? You okay?"

Barbara looked up. At some point she'd backed up all the way to the dividing wall, and was leaning against it heavily. Surprisingly, her eyes were dry, though they still ached. "I'm fine. Or, I will be," she corrected, conscious of the number of times she'd had to call out Jim for saying the same thing when it was clearly untrue. "I'll get out of your way, let you do your thing."

He nodded, still looking at her concerned, and Barbara let him get on with his cooking, thankful he had a such productive outlet to unwind with. She went upstairs to take a shower, blasting the water hotter than usual to ease her tense muscles, taking a moment to just breathe and Exist under the spray, before reflexive concerns about water conservation forced her to stop.

When she came downstairs, Jim was setting out plates. "So, I've been thinking..." he fiddled with the silverware (gloves once more covering his hands). "Strickler _has_ to know the location of Killahead Bridge. We've had no luck so far, searching for it at random. Now that we have a lead, we need to act on this information."

"What you need, is a _plan_ ," she corrected. "And there's no sense doing that on an empty stomach."

Jim was reluctant to let the matter drop, but Barbara thought it did them both some good to just enjoy a delicious meal and set aside troll business for awhile.

* * *

They called Mr. Blinky after dinner and put him on speakerphone (she didn't know how anyone was able to get cell service in Trollmarket, but once Jim had incidentally revealed it was possible, she'd wasted no time adding Blinky to the family plan). Jim called Toby and Aaarrrgghh over via walkie talkie, and Barbara fetched Draal from the basement to complete their gathering.

In the end, they were able to pull together a serviceable plan in relatively little time. It took longer to convince Barbara to go along with it, but not as long as it took to convince Draal, who objected to the plan as well, but for very different reasons; namely that there wasn't enough dismembering involved. A part of Barbara couldn't even object that strenuously to Draal's idea.

She really, really didn't want to invite _him_ over for dinner… but if she did, then they would know exactly where he was – and, significantly, where he _wasn't_ , which would give Mr. Blinky, Toby, and Aaarrrgghh the chance to sneak into his office. Putting a stop to the rebuilding of Killahead Bridge was the only way to really and truly keep her son – and all of Arcadia – safe.

To do it, they needed information. And there was one man who had all the answers they were seeking.

Keep your enemies closer, right?

* * *

 _A/N: If there was room for another Kafka epigraph in the story summary, it would be "I usually solve problems by letting them devour me."_


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter warning for Barbara smiling and making nice with someone she believes is an active threat to herself and her son; Strickler's presence makes her seriously uncomfortable

* * *

 _"So long as you have food in your mouth, you have solved all questions for the time being." -_ Franz Kafka

* * *

The doorbell rang. Barbara felt a cold wave wash over her. Was she really about to do this? Was she really going to allow a man who had conspired to kill her son into her house, and greet him with a _smile?_

The very thought made her stomach churn, but it was too late to change her mind; the wolf was at the door. She was doing this for Jim, she reminded herself. Stopping the Bridge from being completed was the best way to keep him safe (to keep the whole world safe, but that was a distant concept to wrap her head around, and not something she could connect with emotionally), and in order to stop it, they needed to uncover its location.

The doorbell rang again. _Showtime_.

She forced a smile onto her face, and opened the door.

Walter looked the same as he had before, a tall drink of water in a turtleneck sweater. For some reason, she thought she'd be able to detect some sign of what he really was, now that she knew what to look for, but there was nothing. His genial smile looked as sincere as it ever had, deepening the crows feet at the corners of his eyes, which remained the brightest green she'd ever seen.

"Hello," (he even managed to sound uncertain convincingly) "I didn't know what variety you liked, so I brought a pinot noir, the 'heartbreak grape.'" He chortled, holding the bottle out to her. For one frozen moment, she did not know how to respond, her heart pounding in her ears – but the moment passed.

"That's fine." She reached out for the bottle and hoped her movements weren't as jerky as they felt. "I hope you like stuffed mushrooms!" Human food was starting to be a bit hit-or-miss with Jim, but any dish with mushrooms in it he could reliably eat. (They'd been eating a lot of Mediterranean food lately, but at least they could still eat dinner together.) As a secret troll, chances were good Walter liked mushrooms at least as much as Draal did (whose verdict was good, but not as good as burning coals).

She turned away, keeping her steps even as she went to put the bottle on the table, then went to fetch two wine glasses, despite the fact that she had no intention of imbibing this evening (she needed to keep her wits about her... but appearances had to be maintained). The back of her neck itched with the knowledge that she'd turned her back on a dangerous predator – that by taking her eyes off him, she'd functionally _left Jim alone with him_.

A deep, albeit subtle, breath. She could do this. Jim was capable, and Draal could be out of the basement in eight seconds flat (they'd timed it). Her job was to lull Walter into a false sense of security, to magnify their advantage of surprise. He'd likely be keeping a close eye on Jim, but he would expect Jim to be unwilling to act in front of Barbara, and they could _use_ that.

The wine glasses were dusty; she gave them a quick rinse. As she dried them off, her thoughts went to the small plastic bottle tucked deep into her pocket.

She was surprised no one had brought up the possibility of straight-up poisoning Walter; she supposed she should be relieved that the thought had not occurred to Jim. There was a time she would have said with absolute sincerity that Jim wouldn't hurt a fly, but evidently those days were past. Maybe his tactical reasoning would say yes to poisoning Walter if it were proposed to him, but at least the thought had not even crossed his mind (it heartened her to see the gentle son she knew in the warrior he had become).

The thought had occurred to Barbara. Her hand clenched around the bottle of tranquilizers that she didn't even remember reaching for. She knew safe dosages, and lethal dosages, and the uncertain space in-between.

Could she even go through with it? The evidence was damning, but Walter had not personally _done_ anything, not yet (not that they knew of). More than that, could she really drug a person against their will? Her heart leapt into her throat at the thought, every moral fiber in her rebelling.

She forced her hand to let go of the bottle, unopened. It was taking her an unusually long time to fetch two glasses; she hurried back to the dining room, her pocket weighed down as though with lead.

Jim and Walter with both sitting upright at the table, hands folded in front of them. No bloodshed so far, surprisingly.

"Dinner will be ready in five minutes!"

"It smells wonderful, Barbara."

She opened her mouth to direct the compliment towards Jim instead, but paused. She knew her own cooking was as infamous as Jim's was famous, and that was a reputation that the bitter taste of a crushed-up pill could more easily hide in.

"Oh, well, I tried," she managed before the silence grew too long. Hopefully she just came across as flustered, instead of dishonest – _she forcefully shut down that train of thought before it could contemplate what Walter would think of her being flustered_. The knot in her throat tightened.

Jim shot her a quizzical look, but didn't correct her on who should take credit for the meal. He didn't know about the possibly-not-hypothetical tranquilizers. She didn't think she wanted him to know, ashamed.

Walter picked up the conversation, drawing her in as easily as he ever had. She tried not to think about this fact too much, and focused on keeping her body relaxed, her smile easy. Before she knew it, five minutes had passed, and she excused herself to fetch dinner, feeling moderately more confident in the success of their plan.

Pulling the baking sheet of stuffed mushrooms out of the oven, her earlier dilemma returned full-force.

A small dosage wouldn't kill him, but it could slow him down, give Jim and Draal an edge in a physical fight. All she had to do was crush up half a pill and dose one of the mushrooms, then serve that mushroom to Walter. Easy.

It would merely be very proactive self-defense, she told herself, firmly ignoring how her insides twisted with guilt.

But… but Walter was a changeling, a troll. He could have a severe allergic reaction, or it could affect him in a completely unpredictable way, or not at all. They had no idea how closely his brain chemistry mimicked a human's.

She couldn't risk it. (She could not have handled the guilt on her conscious, regardless of the outcome).

The pills stayed in her pocket.

* * *

Dinner was fraught with tension, or so it seemed to Barbara.

Jim was doing a good job of pushing food around on his plate, but Walter was observant; Barbara didn't doubt he'd notice Jim wasn't eating anything eventually (somehow, when formulating their plan to invite Strickler over for dinner, it had completely slipped everyone's minds that Jim would be forced to wear his mask, and would therefore be unable to eat).

They needed to stall Walter as long as possible, to give Toby, Mr. Blinky, and Aaarrrgghh the time they needed to investigate his office. It was entirely possible this dinner would not come to blows, and Barbara's cover of ignorance could remain intact, to be used again in the future.

It was entirely possible, but looked increasingly unlikely to Barbara. The longer they pretended, the more likely it was that Walter would figure out that the whole dinner was a ruse, and if they wanted to keep the advantage of surprise, they needed to act before that happened.

Jim had the easier role; he could get away with passive-aggressive hostility towards his mother's new boyfriend (Walter _wasn't_ her boyfriend, and he hadn't been even before she found out he was a two-faced liar, but it fit the resentful-teenager narrative Jim was presenting).

Barbara was having a much harder time sitting on her own temper. She felt like she was being dragged closer and closer to some precipice with every passing moment, but the final the straw inevitably came when Walt cracked one pun too many.

"...well, that's what you get for eating Italian!" Walker guffawed, the laugh lines at his eyes inviting her to share in the joke.

That was it, she was _done_. Barbara barely managed to force a laugh, before making some quick excuse and escaping to the kitchen. She breathed deeply, nostrils flaring, leaning heavily on the counter, fists clenched. Paolo Vincini's disappearance had been all over the news that morning, and his picture was being circulated around the hospital in case a John Doe with his face turned up.

It seemed Walt really couldn't resist dropping troll-related double entendres when he was confident she wouldn't understand. The wordplay she had once found so charming now felt sinister and manipulative.

She swallowed down the bile that wanted to climb up her throat. Her excuse wouldn't last for much longer (probably – she couldn't actually remember what she'd said to get out of the room), but she found she couldn't be bothered to care. She was going to damn well take however long she wanted to pull herself together (even just thinking that to herself felt fortifying, gave her back control of the situation).

But worry for Jim continued to interrupt her thought processes; she wasn't entirely comfortable leaving Jim alone with him in the dining room, however she didn't think he'd try anything right under her roof, with her just one room away. The risk to his own cover was too great.

... _Or maybe he would_ , she thought, hearing two stomps coming from the dining room, the signal for Draal to come up – but then there was another thump, followed by a string of back-and-forth arrhythmic stomping, and the sounds of a scuffle. _Shit.  
_

Barbara forced herself to walk, not run, back to the dining room, because it was important that she not break her cover unless she had to, and Jim had not shouted or cried out to her for help. Nevertheless, she kept her weight over the balls of her feet and her knees slightly bent; she didn't know what she was going to walk in on, but she was prepared to dodge and/or punch as needed.

Neither was needed. She blinked to see them both seated in their chairs, utensils in hand, as though she had never left. What did that mean?

It meant her cover was still intact, and that Walter was unwilling to reveal himself in her presence. If she stayed in the room, she would suspend any physical altercation, thus keeping Jim safe indefinitely.

There was no sound from the basement; evidently Draal didn't know how to interpret more than two stomps. She could go and fetch him, but that would mean leaving Jim alone with Walter, and letting their fight resume.

Did Jim even need Draal anymore, if the fight was paused for the time being? Barbara bit her lip, indecisive. Maybe Jim didn't need to summon Draal anymore, but maybe he still _did_ and was aware of something Barbara wasn't. Jim _had_ given the signal; maybe it was time to tear down this pantomime.

She wavered for a moment more, then decided to trust her son. "Ack, silly me, I just realized I forgot to move the laundry over. I'll be right back!" (No reason to paint a target on her back until backup had arrived).

She waited until she was out of Walter's line-of-sight to dash down the stairs, only to come to an abrupt stop at the bottom at the sight of an unexpected visitor.

The teenage girl, equally startled by Barbara's sudden appearance, stumbled backwards… straight into Draal, who seemed to be trying to squeeze himself as far away from her as possible. There was nothing Barbara could do to halt the inevitable.

 _"AAIEEEEE – !"  
_

Barbara bolted for her and grabbed her before she could knock her head on something, reeling around in a panic in a dark basement. "Draal, Jim needs you, go!" she snapped. "I'll take care of her."

"T-t-take care of me!?"

"Breathe with me, it's going to be alright." She demonstrated, long deep breaths, exaggerated volume, in for a count of five, hold for five, out for five. 'Mind over matter' was all well and good, but the reverse could be just as useful, when the body could be manipulated to influence the mind. Deep, even breathing could convince the brain that all was well, and that the sympathetic nervous system could dial back the flight-or-fight response.

Barbara sat down on the floor, non-threatening, at ease, and invited the unknown teen to do the same with a gesture. Perhaps responding to Barbara's surety, or perhaps just feeling too shaken to remain standing, the girl complied. She continued to lead the teen through the breathing exercise until she had herself more-or-less back under control.

"What's your name?"

"C-Claire," she answered reflexively, still wide-eyed and a bit shaky.

Claire? From the play? What on _earth_ was she doing in their basement? "Claire, you're alright, you're going to be fine."

"That – That was – "

"That was Draal. He's a troll who lives in our basement." She kept her tone even and relaxed, matter-of-fact.

There was a loud thump and roar from upstairs, and Barbara winced at the sound of something shattering. Claire flinched back, and her breathing started to pick up again.

"Hey, hey, Claire, it's alright. I know trolls can seem scary, but they're just people. They're just people."

"Wh-what's going on?! _Trolls?!_ "

"Yes. Trolls." This evening was not going according to plan, but there was no help for it. "Let me explain."

She explained trolls to Claire the way Jim had explained them to her, painfully aware all the while of how quickly a game of Telephone picked up errors. She erred on the side of caution, saying less where she might have said more, afraid of getting something wrong and leaving Claire with entirely the wrong idea.

When she finished, Claire was slack-jawed and staring, and Barbara had no idea what she was thinking. There was another set of thumps from upstairs, and it seemed to shake Claire free of her stupor.

"This… is so… _incredible!_ It explains so much! Jim's monsters weren't metaphorical after all!"

"Jim's…?"

"Oh, um, Jim left me this letter, and…" she floundered. _Oh-ho_ , so _Claire_ warranted a letter as well, did she? Internally, Barbara was fighting off a smirk, but externally she schooled her face into one more disapproving.

"Claire, what are you doing here?" Her tone came out harsher than she intended, but, under the circumstances, it was a completely reasonable demand.

"I, I, I'm so sorry! Jim was acting weird, and I overheard him talking to Toby that he had a plan to take down Mr. Strickler tonight, and I just wanted to understand what's going on!"

"So you broke into my _house?_ How did you even get in here?"

"Through the window…?"

Barbara looked where she pointed. Oh to be that young and flexible again. She turned back and gave Claire her best Unimpressed look. "And how would you have gotten out again? You did not think this through all the way, did you?"

Claire flushed with embarrassment. "I was worried!" she defended.

"An admirable trait, but not one that excuses trespassing. Now, you'd best get going, and be glad I don't call your parents about this." Barbara stood and Claire followed suit – but then Claire started to move towards the stairs, and Barbara lurched forward to stop her. "Not that way!"

As if on cue, there was another load thump and roar from upstairs. Claire gulped visibly.

"Ohmigosh, Mr. Strickler! I completely forgot!"

Barbara pinched the bridge of her nose. She had rather deliberately left Changelings out of her explanation, in the hope that Claire would be in enough shock over the existence of trolls to forget what brought her to their basement in the first place. "Another time, Claire, alright? There's too much going on right now, and I'm needed elsewhere."

"But – !"

"Claire, you need time to think long and hard about how much you really want to know, because some of this knowledge is dangerous to even possess, regardless of whether you ever act on it." Barbara winced, knowing what it felt like to be on the receiving end of 'I didn't want to tell you because I wanted to protect you,' and knowing how rarely the argument actually held water. But when it came to Changelings, the threat of bodily harm – of death – for just knowing too much, was quite real. Forewarned might be forearmed, but those metaphorical arms could take many forms, and when it came to spy networks and the intelligence game, knowing more was like holding a live grenade.

"You sound like Jim. 'You know that I know that he knows what they know that I know.' I don't know anything!"

Barbara quite frankly had no idea how to parse that. But she didn't need to. "You know about trolls. My son is up there, and I don't have time for this. Go. Home."

Claire eyed the window apprehensively; it would certainly take a lot of upper body strength and acrobatic skill to lift oneself up to the narrow window, which then left very little room to maneuver. Fortunately, they kept a small stepladder in the basement, next to the workbench, so Barbara didn't have to risk throwing her back out giving Claire a boost.

Once she was safely outside Claire hesitated, clearly inclined to hang around and glean what info she could of the goings-on in the house, but Barbara knew how to Mom Glare, and sent her on her way.

Barbara crept up the stairs, listening intently, crowbar in hand that she'd picked up from the workbench. Everything seemed quiet, and she had not heard any thumps for a while. Cautiously, she peeked around the corner.

An unfamiliar green troll was trussed up like a turkey, bound hand and foot with thick rope, with Draal sitting on its – his? – chest for good measure, and Jim was nearby in his armor, though at the moment he was more preoccupied with his phone ("C'mon Tobes, pick up, pick up!") With a jolt, she realized the troll had to be Walter.

* * *

 _A/N: This chapter was getting long, so I decided to split it; I tried a less cliffhangery place to end it, don't know that I succeeded. I got really impatient to post something, so chapter might be subject to edits once I've slept on it for a day or two ;P_

 _Claire: I don't think I made the best first impression on your mom_

 _Jim: Can't be any worse than the impression I made on yours_


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: slight tweak made to the end of last chapter - accidentally pulled from the wrong draft, belatedly realized I needed Jim to be holding his phone, not his sword. All fixed!_

 _Also, I meant to say in the notes, the reason for all the mushrooms in Jim's diet: Before Trollhunters, my default image of what a troll looked like was based heavily in the Norwegian Ny Form trolls (those are NOT the ones with the bright neon hair). These potato-esque forest sprites have such strong nature vibes, I can easily imagine them subsisting on mushrooms. As Trollhunters trolls also have a close connection to soil (they are living stone, I figured I could make mushrooms one of their staples (also, evolutionarily, fungi are closer to animals than plants, so there's that))_

* * *

 _"I am a cage, in search of a bird." -_ Franz Kafka

* * *

Walter was the first to notice her arrival; his eyes widened as they landed on her, and he made an inarticulate choking sound as he started thrashing against his bonds.

"Mom! Is everything alright?"

Draal glanced up briefly, but then returned his focus to their captive.

"I'm fine, everything's fine. Are either of you hurt?"

Walter stopped struggling, following their exchange with narrowed eyes, studying Barbara's reactions closely. He was shrewd; he had to have noticed that this wasn't Barbara's first encounter with trolls. "Why… why would you _tell her?!"_ he moaned. Everyone ignored him.

"We're both fine, but Strickler booby-trapped his office and Toby isn't – " Jim was interrupted by his phone, and he practically pounced on the accept call button. "Tobes! It's a trap!"

Barbara couldn't hear Toby's side of the conversation, but from the way Jim's shoulders sagged with relief, she guessed it was good news.

"You… you _played_ me." Walter's voice was much more gravelly, but still recognizably his. There was something in his tone she did not want to put a name to, but it was almost… admiring.

"Oh, that's rich, coming from _you_. The only reason you went out with me was to mess with my son."

A flash of green, and he returned to his human appearance. "Not… not the only reason."

"That it was even _partially_ your reason for accepting my dinner invitation, is a complete deal-breaker, how do you not get that? You _tried to kill my son_ , how could you think anything you have to say to me could possibly justify that?"

"I did everything I could to avoid killing him!"

Jim scowled, putting away his phone. "It didn't feel like that when you were _throwing knives at my head!"  
_

"Bular will have the Amulet one way or another. I came here tonight because I had a plan to take it without killing you."

Jim crossed his arms. "Demanding that I turn it over while you threaten my life is _not_ a kill-free plan."

"Not that." Walter growled. "If you _had_ handed it over, that would have been an unexpected though welcome turn of events. No, the knives were just misdirection. In my pocket, I have proof." He glared at Draal. "If you could see your way to letting me up?"

Draal grunted. Rather than allow the Changeling access to his pockets, Draal roughly manhandled him, more or less turning him upside-down and shaking him until a familiar metal disk clattered to the floor.

It took a moment for Barbara to register that it was a fake (Jim was, after all, still wearing his armor). She stooped to pick it up from the ground. It was a very well-crafted fake, certain to pass a casual inspection, which must have taken a great deal of time and effort to make. "So, this is your proof that you weren't trying to kill Jim? Because you planned to swap this for his real amulet with him none the wiser?"

" _Yes,"_ Walter stressed, seemingly relieved that she'd grasped his intent.

Her nostrils flared. "And just what did you expect would happen, the next time the Trollhunter had to answer a Call? My son regularly runs _towards_ danger, as much as I wish it were otherwise, and you would have rendered him _defenseless_. How exactly is that 'sparing his life?!'" Her fists were clenched tight and shaking. "Oh, sure, the blood wouldn't be on _your_ hands, you'd have dodged that responsibility, never culpable!"

"Barbara, you have to understand – "

"Don't tell me what I have to do!" she shouted, feeling like she'd fly apart at the least provocation.

Deep breaths. She pushed her glasses back up from where they'd started to slip down. "If you really cared about Jim's well-being, you'd tell us where the Bridge is, and end the biggest threat to his life."

"I – I cannot betray my Order."

Draal snorted. "You're a Changeling. Betrayal is in your blood."

Walter glared. "Right now, that information is all that is keeping me alive."

"Against my better judgement!" Draal snarled, taking a threatening step closer.

Jim pushed Draal's raised fist away. "Let him talk. I want to hear what he has to say."

Walter eyed Draal warily, before turning his focus to Jim. "Just what exactly is your plan here, Young Atlas? Threaten me with bodily harm until I capitulate and give you the location of the Bridge?" He scoffed. "I've had worse. Even if you could follow through on your little threats and kill me outright – which I sincerely doubt – it would _still_ be preferable to what Bular would do to me for betraying him. I am on thin ice as it is, since I will have failed to procure the Amulet for him this evening." His pleading eyes met Barbara's. "I have to obey him, I do not have a _choice!"  
_

Barbara was unmoved. "Don't give me any of that horseshit about 'just following orders' – you're an AP History teacher, for chrissakes." Both Draal's and Jim's eyes widened at her cussing, but seriously – the gloves were coming _off.  
_

"But Bular – " Nope, she wasn't going to have any of that. She evaluated her options; her preferred soft target was at a tricky angle to kick, but his solar plexus was _right there_. Walter gasped and curled tightly around his stomach, wheezing. Jim stared at her, and Draal smiled approvingly.

"You-you're right," he struggled to sit up, hindered by the ropes still binding him. "I am a history teacher, I know the point you're trying to make… but I am also several centuries older than the Geneva Convention, so _forgive me,_ " he growled scathingly, "for letting old habits die hard."

"How old _are_ you?" Jim asked in wonderment.

"Older than the Gregorian calendar."

"... okay, right, but how old is that?" At Walter's eye-roll, Jim huffed, "It's not something you've quizzed us on!"

"So you're as old as dirt." Barbara cut in bluntly. "Are you honestly trying to tell me that Changelings don't know how to _change_? Isn't adaptability your whole schtick? Don't blame your age for your own failure to do the right thing, and take some moral responsibility for a change!"

"Oh, _morals_ ," he scoffed. "'Doing the right thing' – Do you have any idea how subjective that is? There is no absolute, objective morality. There is only what humans decide matters, in a given time and place. Still, it works to my advantage in this instance, because I know that for all your bluster you are too _moral_ to kill me in cold blood."

He somehow managed to look down his nose at all of them. "So, since we've established that you are not going to kill me, just what are you going to do? Keep your guard dog on me for the rest of my life, which will be a very, very long time? It is inevitable that one day he will grow complacent; his focus will slip, and then I will slide a dagger between his ribs and cut out his stone heart.

"Do you think you can imprison me? No cage lasts forever. Besides which, I am a very influential member of my Order. It is only a matter of time before my underlings come for me."

"Ha! You Impure are not the sort to stick your necks out for anybody, least of all each other."

"Even if the Changelings do not act, the humans will still notice my absence. Dealing with a missing person's investigation would be… messy. None of us would want that kind of scrutiny."

"So call the school and take a sabbatical," Jim argued.

"That's… that's not how sabbaticals work…"

"Then call in sick, see if I care!"

Barbara privately thought that Walter made a good point, and wondered if Jim might not have a bit of a skewed idea about how easy it actually was for a person to walk out and leave their life behind.

Jim's phone pinged with a text alert. "... Team Covert Eagle will be here soon." (Walter muttered something in a foreign language – it didn't sound like Trollspeak, but the tone conveyed 'please spare me' clearly enough. He rolled his eyes for good measure, and Barbara fought the urge to sigh). "When they get here, Aaarrrgghh can help escort you to Trollmarket, where you'll be locked up until you give up the location of the Bridge."

"Once again, I will not tell you anything. Surely you can see that this is hardly a permanent solution? You don't know trolls the way I do; they won't be content with locking me up, not for long." He shot a contemptuous look at Draal, daring him to contradict. On the contrary, Draal smashed a fist into his palm in a clearly threatening gesture. Jim facepalmed.

Barbara folded her arms. "Well, then I suggest you tell us where the Bridge is sooner rather than later, so we can let you out of there."

"As if! As soon as I tell you, they'll kill me."

Jim threw up his arms in exasperation. "You _just_ criticized us for _not_ being willing to kill you, and now you're complaining that if you cooperate, you'll die. Make up your mind!"

The back door flew open, and Mr. Blinky ducked inside, followed closely by Aaarrgghh, who took his time squeezing through the door frame (the sight always made Barbara cringe. If their house hadn't originally been built to be wheelchair-friendly with extra-wide doors, he never would have gotten in without severe structural damage).

"Master Jim! You have subdued the vile reprobate, well done!"

Aaarrrgghh rumbled his agreement.

"Draal helped; I couldn't have done it without him." Jim shrugged modestly, then frowned, trying to see around Aaarrgghh's bulk. "Where's Toby?"

"Young Tobias has returned to his domicile; he said he received an urgent request from his Nana. I will fill you in on what transpired on our mission later, after this cretin has been dealt with."

Jim turned back and nudged Walter none-too-gently with his armored foot. "We need to bring him back to Trollmarket. You guys have a place you can lock him up, right?"

Walter started to protest again; Draal gagged him with a short length of rope.

"Ah." Blinky exchanged a look with Aaarrrgghh, speaking volumes in a glance. "Troll society is not in the habit of punitive detention, but there _are_ facilities in the Stronghold that would be suitable, I believe."

"Awesome. Great. Aaarrrgghh, you can carry him, right? Draal can keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn't try anything." Jim deactivated his armor and collapsed into the nearest chair.

Blinky grimaced sympathetically, shaking his head. "You will need to go as well, Master Jim. Draal cannot cross the boundary into Trollmarket – that is, after all, the definition of exile – and it would be best if you went ahead, to explain matters to Vendel. To... mitigate the reaction to an unexpected Changeling being carried through the market."

"Oh, come on!" Jim thumped his head against the table. " _fergluryofmerthin, daylightsmintocommand_ ," he mumbled into the wood. Barbara patted his back supportively.

"Do want to have a bite to eat before you go? Or take something with you?"

Jim waved her off. "No, no, I'll be fine. I can always – " he cut himself off. Yes, at this point, he probably _could_ find at least one thing edible in Trollmarket.

She sent him off with a kiss on one cheek and a reminder to keep her updated. Aaarrrgghh forced his way back through the doorway, and Draal passed him the bound and gagged Changeling, who was then unceremoniously thrown over Aaarrgghh's shoulder.

The porch light illuminated Walter's face for only a brief moment in time, before it was lost in the darkness of night, which pressed close all around them and was held at bay by only the yellow glow of the back porch light.

And with that, it was over. Barbara closed the door behind them, and leaned against it for a moment, then a second moment. Then she got to work. There were leftovers to put away, dishes to clean up. Dinner was a complete disaster. Well, technically, it was a mission success, but as a measure of her hostess skills, it was an absolute disaster. Mechanically, she started to pack the uneaten food into storage containers.

"Barbara, if I may?"

Startled, she turned around. "Mr. Blinky! I thought you were going back to Trollmarket with the others."

"It did not seem prudent to leave this residence undefended, though I do confess I have an ulterior motive; I wished to speak with you, privately, about something we recovered from the Changeling's office." He managed to get all the leftover food packed away before he'd even finished speaking, and moved on to the sink. Unsurprisingly, Mr. Blinky was really, really efficient at doing the dishes. Barbara offered to dry them, but he waved her off, having even that task well in hand(s). Barbara envied his ability to multitask.

"You know that I have been scouring my library for resources that might help Jim. My hope has been that, while we may never comprehend _why,_ exactly, the Amulet has transformed Master Jim, or by what magical mechanism it accomplished this, we might nevertheless be able to change him back, using unrelated magic. Thus far, I have been… unsuccessful, even after weeks of investigation. It is frustrating to find even my expansive collection inadequate, but the paucity of information is perhaps to be expected; transmogrification is, after all, considered a Dark Art. My tomes, alas, have very little information on the subject."

He paused, continuing to rinse a plate much longer than necessary, turning it over slowly in his hands. "Tonight, I stole a book. I hope you do not think poorly of me, if I confess that it is not the first book I have ever absconded with in my life. But… _The Book of Ga-Huel._ We found it in the Changeling's office, in his second, secret office. It is a book of Dark Magic, BarBara." He set the last plate aside.

Barbara rested her hand on one of his shoulders. "And you think it might have the answer, for Jim."

"The possibility exists." Blinky looked more somber than she had ever seen him. "I have never felt so conflicted before. I know you, as a human physician, are oathbound to a creed, no? That while you may be willing to do anything for those under your care, there are nevertheless certain interdicts you will never transgress for ethical reasons."

It took her a moment, but she grasped his meaning. "That's right. Most people know it by only one of its tenets, 'first: do no harm,' though there are several more." In fact, at Barbara's school all the students swore by the Declaration of Geneva, rather than the Hippocratic Oath or one of several other codified sets of medical ethics. They were all, in broad strokes, extremely similar, differing only in their exact wording.

"And is there no gray area, no room for compromise or subjective evaluation of individual circumstances?" He clenched two fists. "Is Jim not a worthwhile cause? Is he not worth any amount of risk?"

Barbara thought of the pill bottle, still in her pocket. "On some things, sure, you can take it on a case-by-case basis. But on others… you have to stick to your convictions, no matter what. Though – and I do not understand magic, not even a little bit – I have to ask: is all Dark Magic equally… Dark? I don't doubt that there are some spells in there we should not touch with a ten-foot pole. But maybe others… maybe the one that will help Jim… "

Mr. Blinky thought that over for a long moment, drumming his fingers against the countertop. They made a heavy rumbling sound, like gravel crushed under a tire. "I fear that even reading this book might cross one of those all-important moral lines – knowledge is, after all, an incredibly powerful contagion. But… but what if it could be harnessed for good, what if a cure for Jim could be found in these cursed pages?" From one of his pockets, he pulled out a thick, leather-bound volume. It gave Barbara chills just to look at it.

Mr. Blinky held it out to her. "Would you… would you hold on to it?"

"Me?!"

"I fear the cost of using this knowledge – and I fear the cost to Master Jim, if we do not. Until this conflict is resolved, until I can stand resolute and confident in my decision, I… I would much rather be bereft of the temptation. Please." He pushed the book towards her, and, with immense trepidation, she took it, setting it down on the counter next to her as quickly as possible.

Blinky heaved out an enormous sigh (Barbara surreptitiously leaned away from the smell). _"Thank you."  
_

They did not talk much more after that. Well, Barbara didn't. Blinky was too loquacious (his word) to ever _really_ be quiet unless he had a book or two in hand, but his even-tempered prattle on inconsequential subjects was relaxing, and Barbara didn't mind. When Jim came home, an hour later, he found them both in the living room, absorbed in reading (Blinky borrowed a book from her own shelves, promising to return it when next they met).

* * *

 _A/N: There were several epigraphs that I felt would fit this chapter well, I struggled to decide. The runners up were: "There is an infinite amount of hope in the universe... but not for us," and "You can choose to be free, but it is the last decision you'll ever make."_

 _(sorry Toby wasn't in this chapter more; I don't think I've ever had four characters in a conversation before and I was at my limit)_

 _Next chapter is Jim!POV and I cannot express how much I have been looking forward to it_


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Chapter warnings for referenced self-harm (excoriation disorder) and Jim's body image issues. Also, uh, dental stuff I guess.

* * *

 _"People label themselves with all sorts of adjectives. I can only pronounce myself as 'nauseatingly miserable beyond repair'." -_ Franz Kafka

* * *

Jim practically slammed the door on his way out at the end of rehearsal, eager to get on his way. The play opened in three weeks, and practices were really starting to ramp up. Today's rehearsal had started out not-terribly; Jim knew all his lines, and Ms. Janeth had only needed to remind him three times to project all the way to the back of the auditorium.

Then she'd made a comment about his emoting, calling his facial expressions 'a bit wooden,' and his insides had frozen for a long moment until he'd managed to firm up the particular mental twist that kept his glamor mask in place. He was getting a lot better at keeping it on, but the close-call had left him with a writhing stomach for the rest of rehearsal, like an acute case of stage fright.

He just wanted to be _home_ already, and he was seriously considering taking the canal shortcut to get there. He knew he wasn't supposed to cut through the woods at night, primarily because of his mom's fears that he would crash his bike into a tree in the dark. But it honestly did not look that dark out, the sky was clear and the moon bright. He could see fine, and he was impatient to get home.

Resolved, he set about unlocking his bike and making sure his bag was secure. The forecasted bad weather had failed to materialize; good news for him, as he had not particularly been looking forward to biking home in the rain. It was about time that something went his way - overall, he'd been having a pretty craptastic day.

He'd woken up a half hour before his alarm from a deeply unsettling dream in which his teeth had rotted and fallen out one by one. It left him extremely rattled, so much so that he'd actually been halfway to the bathroom to check his mouth out in the mirror, before he remembered why that was a _terrible_ idea and slunk back into bed to bury himself under his blankets.

(It had been… maybe two weeks? since he'd last looked himself in the mirror without the mask on. He turned his back to it when he brushed his teeth, when he could be bothered to brush his teeth. Rinsing with mouthwash was so much easier, and he could just drink a cup of the stuff if he thought his breath was getting really bad.)

He was sure he'd read somewhere that dreams about tooth loss were surprisingly common, and he knew he'd had some before all this troll business started, but knowing didn't help shake off the almost overwhelming feeling of disquiet that had settled over him. He'd spent the whole morning constantly pressing his tongue against his teeth, to reassure himself they were all accounted for (they were, and then some). The gaps that had formed on either side of his canines as his jaw widened were now occupied by the half-grown buds of brand-spanking new teeth (He'd seen his own x-rays. He had some idea how big these new teeth would be when they finished growing in, and calling them 'half-grown' was severely underestimating how much they had left to do).

So yeah. He'd been feeling unnerved and off-balance all day thanks to some freaky dream that, all things considered, was one of the most normal things to happen to him lately.

He hadn't been able to pay attention in any of his classes, which meant he'd need to find the time to copy Toby's notes. Thankfully Señor Uhl had a policy of dropping one's lowest quiz grade, because that last Spanish quiz Jim took definitely needed to see the bottom of a garbage can. Math class had been moderately better, in that he couldn't remember it at all, so presumably nothing horrible happened.

History was… an ordeal. Yesterday, when they'd first walked into History class and seen a substitute, Claire had whirled on Jim with a gasp, but there hadn't been time to explain anything before the bell rang. She'd spent the whole class staring at him, watching him; he could practically see the gears turning in her mind. It had made him antsy, and he hadn't been able to nom on any pencils under her scrutiny (his gums ached something awful by the end; gritting his teeth so much probably hadn't helped matters). Two months ago, he wasn't sure she knew he even existed, and now his crush kept _staring_ at him constantly and he did not know how to cope with that, okay?

Mr. Strickler might have said something about 'turnabout being fair play,' if he'd still been there, but there was a Reason he wasn't.

Today had been a bit better; Claire had stopped shooting glances at him at every opportunity once he'd explained what was up with Strickler. But she always had more questions - which for the most part he was happy to answer. Her enthusiasm for the subject rubbed off on him, and reminded him that trollhunting could be really amazing, that there were quite a few things about it he enjoyed.

Except he still hadn't figured out a way to tell her that her brother had been replaced. She was taking the existence of trolls better than he could have ever hoped, and he didn't want to jeopardize that… But she deserved to know. Enrique was her _brother_. It was just so hard to work out how to even broach the topic in conversation, though he knew he had to do it sooner rather than later, or she'd accuse him (rightfully) of keeping secrets.

She didn't share a lunch period with him and Toby, which was unfortunate but couldn't be helped. He and Tobes had sat at their usual table, and it looked like things might be starting to turn around for him - he'd finally managed to put the tooth-dream behind him, he was feeling alert and present, and Steve had lunch detention and therefore couldn't bother them.

So _of course_ he'd blown up at Toby, completely irrationally. He'd immediately felt bad for over-reacting, but he couldn't shake his angry feelings once they'd been riled. Toby interpreted his seething silence as wanting to be left alone, when deep inside, Jim thought maybe a hug would have made him feel better? He owed Toby _such_ an apology. And maybe also an explanation. It _really_ wasn't something Jim wanted to put into words, though.

It had started when they were talking about Halloween, just two weeks away. They'd already decided in freshman year that they were too old for trick-or-treating, but that didn't keep them from thinking that _maybe_ it would be a good idea for them to each have a costume planned, in the event they got invited to a Halloween party. It didn't seem likely, but hey, two guys could dream. And it was fun to brainstorm costume ideas.

Until Toby had exclaimed that with the glamor mask, Jim could go as anyone and have _The Best Costume of All Time_ , and Jim had just - snapped (and he'd had to clench his teeth against the impulse to do so more literally - an instinct which, in turn, frightened him, so then he'd been angry _and_ scared). No idea why, just - wham. Zero to sixty, from laughing with his best bud to upset beyond coherent thought, with no warning.

The inexplicably sharp anger had faded quickly to a low simmer, and Jim had been left with the wreckage of his thermos and a wide-eyed Tobes who smelled… who smelled… Jim didn't know what that smell was; it was terrible and wonderful at the same time. It was _exciting_.

"No," he'd said. "We're not doing that." and then he'd offered no further explanation.

It wasn't until much later during rehearsal, after he'd had time to work through it, that he was able to put his objection into words.

The glamor mask was not for making costumes, it was for making him normal. Being _human_ was not a costume; he wouldn't let it be.

He knew he didn't look human anymore under the mask - he'd moved well past the point his changes could be explained away by human medicine. Some time earlier, during a mask mishap playing video games, Toby had assured him that his nose did not look anything like Voldemort's, but since he'd said this to Jim completely unprompted, Jim found this denial suspiciously specific.

Where his sunburns had peeled, they left him with the World's Frickin' Weirdest Tan Lines; it seriously looked like he'd dipped his hands in blue paint, and he knew his face had to look the same down to his neck. The skin around his wrists was sore and increasingly scabbed - his skin-picking had returned with a vengeance. He knew it was self-destructive, and he tried to stop; even as he was doing it, he wanted to stop, but the part of his stupid brain that insisted (contrary to all logic and evidence) that he should be able to peel away the trollishness overrode everything else. He kept thinking of that guy in the Narnia books, the one who got turned into a dragon. Like maybe if he just got _deep enough_ he could strip away the blue-gray flesh and leave his hands human again.

Intellectually, he knew that wasn't true. In fact his mom's theory suggested just the opposite. It involved explaining the difference between the dermis and the epidermis and the rates at which different cells regenerated, but what it all boiled down to was that he probably already had a complete layer of trollskin hidden under his human one. His severe sunburns had killed off all the human cells in those areas, bringing the troll to the surface sooner; eventually, the rest of his human skin cells would die off as well, and he'd be left with -

Jim shook his head, and pedalled faster. He took the turn off the sidewalk and into the woods sharply, thrilling at the feeling of wind in his hair (his bike helmet did not fit over the glamor mask. He'd been tweaking the glamor's appearance to show him wearing a helmet as needed, and his mom had yet to pick up on it).

He didn't want to think about what his hair really looked like, under the illusion; he could hardly be bothered to comb it anymore. It wasn't as though it mattered, anyway; when he was human, his hair was always perfectly parted.

Jim was startled out of his spiraling thoughts by a low whistling sound, which cut through the noise of his bike tires and the typical night sounds of the forest. He skidded his bike to a halt; it was that song, he realized, the really eerie one, and he knew there could only be one person, one troll in all of Arcadia who was that dedicated to the art of heebie-jeebies. The museum curator, what was her name, Ms. Numora? - surpassed all others in sheer creepitude by several orders of magnitude.

What was she doing _there? Now?_ (If she was whistling, that meant she wanted him to know she was there, a thought that was about as comforting as a blanket of spiders). He couldn't tell if she was in front of him, or behind him - he didn't know which way to run to get away.

He dismounted from his bike, and plunged his hand into his bag. "For the Glory of Merlin, Daylight is mine to command!" As his armor closed around him, he peered into the dark trees, trying to catch a glimpse of movement.

"Stricklander said we had to act with caution."

Jim whirled in the direction the voice had come from, but was still blindsided by a spinning kick to his chest. The force knocked him back, though he managed to stay on his feet (his bike was less lucky, and clattered to the ground).

"I don't see why. When your body is found in these woods, no one is going to think a _troll_ did it. You don't come home tonight, your mother worries. She calls the police, they organize a search party, put your face on milk cartons. So sad." she grinned, showing her sharp teeth. "But nothing they find will lead them back to _us."  
_

Jim was able to roll out of the way of her next strike, coming up in a fighting stance and taking a swing at her, which she jumped back to avoid.

"People go missing in Arcadia all the time, but no one talks about it. No one notices. A town this size, and you've never wondered why there's not a single panhandler anywhere? In this economy? The streets of Arcadia are washed clean with blood, little Trollhunter."

He blocked her swords with his, pushing her back with a grunt of effort. He couldn't let her words distract him, not when he needed all his focus on the fight. She was fast, and as likely to attack with her curved swords as she was to kick with her legs, so there were a lot of fast-moving limbs for Jim to keep track of.

"So a white boy goes missing. That's worth at least a week of media attention, but by then it won't matter, because Lord Gunmar will be freed and the time for living in the shadows will have passed."

She started to circle him; he pivoted to keep up, nearly tripped over his fallen bike. The Changeling took advantage of his imbalance to come in fast, swinging her blade towards his right shoulder. He raised his sword to intercept it, but too late he realized it was a feint, and the hilt of her second sword came crashing down on his forehead. The glamor mask took most of the blow, leaving him stunned instead of unconscious, but it got knocked off in the process.

He heard her take a sharp hissing intake of breath while he desperately tried to recover his balance, blinking spots from his eyes.

"You're… a _ghoul?!_ " She'd fallen out of her fighting stance in shock, and Jim seized the opportunity to sweep her legs. She went down hard in a flurry of limbs, one leg getting caught in a tree root, but she wouldn't stay down for long - he turned and scooped up his fallen mask before jumping on his bike, pelting back the way he came. If he could just make it to the well-lit, well-trafficked street, he might have a chance to escape her. Bular might be willing to chase him down Main, but in his experience Changelings favored an altogether more subtle approach.

"Don't expect any camaraderie from me! This changes _nothing_ ," she called at his retreating back, taking off in pursuit after him. At least, he assumed she was pursuing him - she could move so quietly at times, and he couldn't hear anything over the pounding of his heart and the clatter of his gear chain as he pushed his bike to the limit.

He soon burst out of the woods and back onto the sidewalk - at this time of day, there were plenty of cars still on the road. Oh! He turned away, hiding his face. Mask on, mask on - there!

Glowing eyes watched him from the shadows, but did not come closer. He needed to get to safety. Trollmarket was too risky - it was closest, but he'd have to leave the well-lit streets to get there. Home - he could go home; he didn't think the pink Changeling would want to tangle with Draal a second time.

It was not the most nerve-wracking trip home he'd ever made (thank you, stalkling), but it definitely made the top 5. He let out an explosive breath of relief when he finally locked the door behind him, rubbing at the hair on the back of his neck in the hope that it'd finally settle down.

He moved restlessly through the house, checking and re-checking to make sure all the windows and doors were locked. After half an hour of nothing happening, he stopped pacing to start making dinner; with perfect timing, his mom got home just as it finished cooking. Everything was fine.

One thought kept spinning, spinning through his head, though. If he was the first human Trollhunter - if what was happening to him had never happened to anyone before - how could that Changeling recognize it? How could she have a _word_ for it?

* * *

 _A/N: Quick timeline reminder: since Strickler did not swap the Amulets, there has been no attempt to open the Bridge, and they don't know they need the Trollhunter alive to do it. (NotEnrique has not had the opportunity to ignore summons to an attempted opening and accidentally kill a goblin)_


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Chapter warnings for mentions of cannibalism and baby-eating, though nowhere near A Modest Proposal levels

Jim's brain chemistry is a little out of whack - nothing super severe, but his meds aren't as effective as they usually are, and he continues to not take very good care of himself :/ I don't personally have OCD, so if I've misrepresented anything _please_ let me know so I can fix it. I wanted Jim to present some of the less visible symptoms that people don't always think about, so his doubt and guilt are amplified here.

Also, side note, Toby does canonically use the callsign Warhammer prior to getting his Warhammer, the timeline is not confused!

* * *

 _"I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound or stab us." -_ Franz Kafka

* * *

 _Hey Jim,_  
 _I couldn't find your_  
 _usual thermos, so_  
 _today's shake is in_  
 _the purple water_  
 _bottle. I'm working a_  
 _double shift, so I'll be  
home late tonight _

_Love you,_ _  
XOXO_

Jim unstuck the post-it note from the fridge and rummaged inside, mentally cataloging ingredients. He pushed aside some condiment bottles, looking for – there! He had everything he needed.

It was a recipe he knew so well he could probably do it with his eyes closed (he didn't try, obviously. One disastrous mishap a year ago was enough for him to learn his lesson). He cracked an egg one-handed, just because he could – though since he still needed to use two hands to separate out the yolk, the bit of showmanship was a bit superfluous. Then he cracked two more eggs and added the whites to a medium-sized mixing bowl, but hesitated over what to do with the empty shells. He could add them to the protein shake that would be his lunch, or he could just – _nope_. Jim threw the shells in the trash, and washed his hands.

The rhythm of cooking was familiar, soothing. It was too bad this particular recipe didn't take that long to make; Jim would have preferred to stay in this meditative state longer. Adding some cilantro to garnish, Jim stepped back to admire his work. The omelet looked good, really good. Now he just needed to call over its intended recipient.

He dithered for a moment whether to call, or text, or run back upstairs for his walkie talkie. He checked the time – it was a little after nine. That wasn't too early to call on a Saturday, right? Maybe he should get the walkie talkie, just in case; Toby turned his off when he slept, so there'd be no chance of waking him up unintentionally.

Mentally practicing what he'd say (he was aiming for casual, but sincere), he fiddled needlessly with the antenna. But, breakfast would get cold if he stalled too long, so –

He pressed down the 'talk' button. "Trollhunter to Warhammer, do you copy?"

Jim didn't have to wait long for a response. _"Warhammer copy. What's up, Jimbo?"_

"Got some breakfast with your name on it, if you want it."

 _"What kind of rhetorical question is that? I'll be right over. Over."  
_

True to his word, Toby let himself into the house eight minutes later. Jim wrung his hands together, not sure if Toby was still upset with him or not. He hadn't sounded upset, but Jim had his doubts.

Toby grinned widely when he spotted Jim. That was a good sign, right? "Good morning, Jimbo! Smells great."

"Morning, Tobes," he answered reflexively. "Listen, about yesterday – "

Toby flapped a dismissive hand. "Water under the bridge, my man. I know you didn't mean anything by it." He sat down at the table, and Jim moved to put the omelet in front of him.

"But I still have to say it. You didn't deserve to be treated like that, Tobes, and I'm sorry." Guilt roiled through his stomach, tight and familiar. He took a shuddering breath and tried not to drown in it.

"Jim, buddy, I'm not mad at you. I get it; you're going through a lot right now. The apology omelet is definitely appreciated though, thanks." He jabbed a fork in Jim's direction. "You were a jerk."

Jim hung his head. "I know. I know! And I didn't even have the grit-shaka to blame this time!"

Toby shuddered exaggeratedly. "Don't remind me."

"I wish I could say it won't happen again, but…" he balled his hands into fists in frustration. He had not meant to snap the first time either; he knew he couldn't trust himself, and that meant Toby shouldn't trust him either.

"Jim, I get it." He reached over to give Jim a gentle shake. "Please don't beat yourself up, Bular has got that covered."

"We cool?" Jim offered a tentative fistbump, still uncertain.

Toby returned the gesture with enthusiasm. "We cool."

Jim heaved an explosive sigh of relief. "Great. Awesome."

They lapsed into silence, broken only by the scrape of Toby's fork across his plate. He paused, a cheesy piece of egg halfway to his mouth. "Aren't you going to eat anything?"

"I'm fine."

Toby looked unconvinced. "How are you doing, really?"

Jim sighed, but he figured he owed Toby a more honest answer. "Tired. My joints ache a bit, but Mom thinks that might be a normal growth spurt."

Toby chewed slowly, intently focused on Jim. "I'm worried about you."

"We'll find a cure," Jim insisted.

Toby grabbed his wrist. Jim stilled; he looked down at where one hand, the hand Toby now held, had been aggressively picking at the other. He'd forgotten to put his gloves back on after he finished cooking; underneath the illusion, he was probably scratched bloody.

"That's not what I'm talking about. I'm worried about _you."  
_

"I… Can we just _not_ , right now?" Now that his attention had been drawn to it, his wrist really _hurt._ He pulled out of Toby's gentle hold.

"Jimbo, buddy… you gotta take care of yourself, man." Toby pushed his plate away, his omelet only half-finished. (Jim jerked, alarmed – what did he do wrong?) Toby sighed and looked Jim straight in the eyes. "I'm not going to eat any more until you get yourself something." Then, with forced cheer, he added, "Breakfast is the most important meal of the day!"

Jim felt like there were ants crawling all over him. He didn't like either of his choices, but he knew refusing would just make Toby worry about him more, and that outcome was less palatable than the thought of taking off his mask and eating the breakfast he forgot to have before Toby came over.

"Okay, okay. I'll… have some fruit." That would be quick, even faster than toast. He went back to the fridge and pulled his selection out of the produce drawer. If one good thing had to come out of his troll transformation, at least pomegranates were as easy as apples to eat.

Standing in the kitchen, behind the dividing screen, Jim set to work munching on his breakfast. It took until Jim was halfway done for Toby to catch on that he had no plans to show his face while eating.

"Hey! I've seen your trollish self before, you don't look _that_ bad."

"I do! You're just saying that!" Jim called back, before taking an oversized bite of pomegranate, loose seeds falling free like drops of blood as he chewed his mouthful of hard rind, spongy pith, and fleshy seeds.

"How do I know you're actually eating something and not, like, pretending to eat?"

Jim wavered; that was a good point. He stuck one hand out beyond the barrier and waved his half-eaten fruit – incidentally scattering more seeds everywhere. Damn, those could stain if he didn't clean them up quickly. Jim hastily stuffed the last of the pomegranate in his mouth, restored his mask, then got to work cleaning up the inadvertent mess he'd made on the floor.

He could hear Toby stifling laughter, but found he didn't mind. The sound unknotted something in his chest, moved him a little closer back to equilibrium. Finally, he got the last of the seeds cleaned up, and rejoined his friend in the dining room.

Toby had resumed eating his omelet in Jim's absence, and was nearly done himself. "Got any plans today? Gonna go down to Trollmarket to work some more on your Vespa?"

Jim groaned. "Trollmarket, yes – Vespa, no. I've got some questions for Strickler."

"That two-faced turd? What d'you need to ask him?"

"Something I heard a changeling say – oh, _Nomura_ , that's her name!" Jim snapped his fingers in realization. "She called me a 'ghoul' last night, and – "

"Hold up, hold up," Toby gestured for a time-out. "What do you mean, 'last night'?"

"She attacked me on my way home from rehearsal, I got away but that's not important right now. My mask fell off and she said I was a _ghoul,_ except when I called Blinky he didn't know what that was, outside of human stories. I think… I think it might be a changeling term, which means I have to ask a changeling what it means."

"So why not ask NotEnrique? He's more on our side than not. I think. It can be hard to tell with the little barfbag, but he _did_ help us break into Strickler's office, even if he did bail when things got hairy. Smokey. Whatever."

"Two reasons. One, I'm _pretty_ sure Claire's parents haven't gotten over the mess I made of their house. I'm hoping that if I stay away long enough, they'll forget what I look like and give up any plans they might have to file a restraining order against me."

"Hm, valid. What's your other reason?"

"I don't want to face Claire again until I know how to tell her about Enrique, the real Enrique. It's my fault that her brother is trapped in the Darklands, and she doesn't know! Not only that, I've gotten so distracted with… with my body's changes – _don't say it!_ " Toby's mouth snapped closed before he deliver an ill-timed joke. "I've been so distracted that I haven't been working on a plan to rescue him. That should be a priority, and we've made no progress _at all."_ The guilt was back and it was nearly unbearable. He allowed his head to thump onto the table, wincing as it jarred his skull and renewed the ache in his jaw. God, he could really use a nylabone right now – or better yet, that steering wheel Blinky found for him, it was the perfect size to chew on –

– and he was getting distracted _again_ , why was it so hard to stay focused? He thumped his head a second time, not expecting it to help.

"We've made progress!" Toby argued. "We've captured a changeling, _and_ we've got a portal into the Darklands, now. Sure, it's small, but that's not _nothing_." His eyes widened, and he flapped his hands in excitement. "Ohh! Ooh! Idea! We could try bribing NotEnrique to go through the Fetch and bring back Enrique!"

Jim perked up. "That's… actually a really good idea. How many socks can you offer up?"

"Short notice? I could do five pairs if you want 'em really sweaty. Otherwise, do you think he'd go for a payment plan, in multiple installments?"

He felt lighter, now that they actually had a plan. Toby was right, they were making progress. "It's worth a shot. Uh, but can you be the one to ask him? I really can't afford to be caught skulking around Claire's house."

"Aye aye, Jimbo!" He gave Jim a sloppy salute. "You can count on me."

"I know I can, Tobes. You've never let me down." He tugged on the hem of his shirt. "I hope you know you can always count on me, too, right?"

Toby gave an exasperated sigh and pulled Jim in for a hug. It was really nice, and warm, and if Jim could have spent the whole day like that he would have, but he had things that needed to get done.

"So, what time did you want to leave?" Toby asked when they'd pulled apart.

"Huh?" Jim blinked, not following the topic jump.

"When did you want to go to Trollmarket, and what time do you think we'll be back? I should probably let Nana know if it's going to be for most of the day."

"You want to come too?"

"Jim. Seriously? Where you go, I go. We're a team, remember?"

Jim smiled fondly. "Yeah. Yeah, I remember."

* * *

They made their way to the Stronghold, where prisoners were kept in suspended cages. Strickler was in troll form in the centermost cage, though he became human-shaped once he spotted Jim. For some reason, that really irritated Jim.

"I have questions for you!" Jim called up at him.

"Must we keep doing this? I'm not going to tell you anything about the Bridge." Strickler's eyes glittered dangerously. "And if you have any specific questions about the _revenge_ I will enact upon you for locking me up, then I'm afraid you will have to remain in suspense, as I am myself suspended. It wouldn't do to spoil the finale, after all."

"Ugh, no, I'm not here about the Bridge this time – or whatever revenge schemes you're keeping yourself entertained with. What can you tell me about ghouls?"

"Why should I tell you anything?" he snapped back reflexively, then blinked. "Ghouls? Why come to me? You've celebrated Halloween before, surely. Hasn't that given you a general idea? You can't be that unobservant."

"Hey!" Toby protested, taking an aggressive and ultimately useless step forward.

Jim held firm, not allowing himself to be distracted. "Humans get things wrong all the time. I want to know what a 'ghoul' means to a troll."

"And so you thought you'd ask a _changeling?_ I could drive a city bus through the holes in your logic, Young Atlas. I ask again, why come to me? Where did you hear the term?"

"Doesn't matter. Do you know, or don't you?"

"On the contrary, I think it matters a great deal. Tell me where you heard it, and the real reason you came to me, and I'll consider telling you what I know."

"Oh come on!" Toby complained. "Like we're going to fall for that. Saying you'll 'consider' it is just your way to not say anything and then claim you stuck to the deal."

"Well, you'd be no worse off than you are now. I really could not possibly comment without knowing the proper context; by not telling me, you are blocking your own means of attaining a satisfactory answer."

"Fine!" Jim growled. "That changeling at the museum, Nomura, she called me a ghoul." Strickler's jaw dropped. "From the way she said it, it sounded like it meant something specific, not just a general insult. We came to you because you're also a changeling." Strickler was still staring at him, saying nothing. It was making the hairs stand up on the back of Jim's neck. "So?" he prompted. "What is a ghoul?"

Strickler collected himself quickly, his surprise vanishing as though it had never been. "Ah, forgive me, but – I don't know why she said that. You don't look anything like a ghoul."

Jim saw Toby twitch at that in his peripheral, and he knew that Strickler had seen as well. Toby wasn't known for his poker face (something he'd been actively working on, since it was a pretty important skill for doing stage magic, but it was still a work in progress). Jim probably didn't have any room to complain – who knew what expression was written on his own face?

Whatever the case, Strickler knew they were hiding something, something to do with Jim's appearance. Did he know about glamor masks, could he guess that Jim was wearing _two tennis shoes, two socks, boxers, his second-favorite pair of jeans, a white t-shirt, blue cardigan –_ Jim's thoughts swerved away from dangerous territory.

"Alright, Young Atlas. I'll tell you what I know – but only you. Young Tobias will have to leave."

Toby sputtered, but Jim just rolled his eyes. "You do know that I'm going to tell him everything anyway, right?"

"That remains to be seen. What will it be, Young Atlas? That's my deal, take it or leave it."

 _"I don't trust him,"_ Toby hissed. "And I don't like the thought of leaving you alone with him, where he can get his changeling hooks into you." He curled his fingers in demonstration.

"I'm _so close_ to getting answers, though. And I'm not going to let my guard down; it'll be fine." Jim reassured him.

"Twenty minutes. That's as long as you get, and then I'm coming in after you, capische?"

"Roger that, Tobes. Twenty minutes."

Toby walked backwards out of the chamber, glaring at Strickler and making 'I've got my eyes on you' gestures all the while. He only stumbled twice on the uneven flooring – Jim was impressed.

Once Toby was out of sight, Jim turned back to his former teacher. "So, spill. What's a ghoul?"

"Ah, where to begin?" He shuffled around within his cage, adopting a better posture, hands under his chin in a manner that was achingly familiar from when he taught history. Jim shook the thought away. He was only trying to appear familiar in order to prey on Jim's sympathies, and Jim would not let him succeed.

"A ghoul is, quite simply, the offspring of a changeling and a human."

Jim's heart skipped a beat. "What?"

"Come now Jim, you've taken health class, it isn't complicated."

Ugh, Jim did not need the mental images that conjured. "What do ghouls look like?" he demanded instead, determinedly Not Thinking about the glamor mask in that way that was becoming increasingly difficult.

"Ghouls look completely human at birth. Those that survive to adolescence begin to take on more trollish characteristics. The need to avoid sunlight is one of the first signs, I believe – " under the mask * _Not mask there was no mask!*_ Jim's face felt clammy with sweat. " – the teeth are pretty noticeable as well, those take a few weeks to grow in. Same with fingernails and toes. The shift to a troll nose looks a bit ghastly in its transitional state, I hear. Some changes are more internal, of course – "

Jim lunged to catch the falling mask but missed; the clatter it made as it hit the ground echoed around the empty chamber.

"Ah." Strickler spoke softly, his voice gravelly. He was in troll form again. "A glamour mask. I should have guessed."

Jim fumbled with the mask, trying to get it to stay on, but it wouldn't take, he was too focused on it. Frustrated, he threw it on the ground and pulled the hood of his sweatshirt to cover as much of his face as he could (his favorite blue cardigan was as much a lie as his human face – he wore hoodies, now, because it was important that he always be able to cover up to avoid sunlight). He felt… he didn't know how he felt, something like shame, maybe – whatever it was, he didn't like it.

"You said," Jim cleared his throat, trying to shake loose the tight feeling there. "You said 'those that survive to adolescence.' What did you mean by that?"

Strickler was silent for a long moment before answering. "Bular likes to eat them." Jim recoiled in horror. Strickler opened his mouth to say more, but then closed it again.

"And you guys, you changelings just _let him?!"  
_

"No! None of us are ever in a position to 'let' Lord Bular do anything. If we are useful and cunning and very fortunate, he 'lets' us live." He scowled ferociously at Jim, eyes glowing brightly, before subsiding. "I do take your point, Jim. Bular is not one who'd know to check the local papers for birth announcements. More often a rival changeling would 'spill the beans,' as it were, than the changeling parent would turn over their own child, though that's been known to happen as well."

"So, I'm guessing ghouls aren't very common?"

"They're not unheard of, but no, they are not common. I personally only know one who made it to adulthood in the last half century. Avoiding Bular's appetite is only the first hurdle to overcome. Once they grow up, and the changes start taking hold… well. Humans tell their own stories about ghouls, do they not? And none of them are complimentary." He sighed and leaned his forehead against the bars. "Humans are vicious, and they never learn. History repeats, over and over again, and the victims are ground into the dust beneath the machinations of so-called 'progress.'"

"That's… horrible."

Strickler shrugged. "That's life."

The ensuing silence was heavy, oppressive – Jim lurched for another topic. "So… so if ghouls are part-changeling, doesn't, doesn't that mean they can… change?" Jim didn't know why he was keeping up the pretense that they were still discussing ghouls abstractly – Strickler had _seen_. He just… he just wasn't ready to make the switch to inclusive pronouns.

"Only once they have fully achieved their troll form, which usually takes about half a year, though it varies. Attempting to change before then could tear their bodies apart. Oh – " he dropped his lazy, lecturing tone, voice suddenly more urgent. "You'd best avoid gaggletacks, Young Atlas, now that you've started to change. I'm told the results can be… unpleasant.

"Ghouls are actually where polymorphs come from – you've not met a polymorph, have you? Well, not that you'd know it if you had. Ghouls who live long enough to become full changelings have no familiar, and therefore gain the ability to take on any form."

Jim was distracted from the queasy feeling that had pervaded his insides by the unexpected information. "Wait, there are changelings that can _do_ that? That seems like a really useful skill to have for an organization of spies. Why wouldn't you guys…" Jim managed to stop himself before he could finish with 'breed like rabbits,' but that didn't alleviate his urgent need for some brain bleach.

"Because they haven't any familiars. And without a familiar, their loyalty could not be guaranteed."

Jim struggled to see the connection, and then he did. _Hostages._ "Wait, no, do you expect me to believe that changelings, who are working for _Gunmar_ , the guy who wants to eradicate all human life, or something… Are you trying to tell me that each changeling cares about what happens to one human baby?"

Strickler scoffed. "Not hardly! But, there is an upper limit to how long one can remain in deep cover without being tempted by assimilation. For those few changelings who choose to defect and join human society permanently… well, they find themselves cut off from all human society, trapped in troll form, in short order. Poetic justice.

"No, ghouls have to demonstrate considerable dedication to the cause if they want to be inducted into our Order. Killing and eating their human family is a good start, but sometimes even that is not enough to be convincing of their long-term commitment."

Jim could only stare in horror. "Wha - _what?!"_ He struggled to make some sense of what he was hearing, something he could latch onto. "Are you saying… that if you _were_ to give us the location of the Bridge, they'd kill your familiar?" He paled. "Is that already a risk? Do they know you were captured against your will?"

Strickler rolled his eyes. "Not to worry, Young Atlas, the punishment for high treason is much more… visceral, and it's not worth wasting time tracking down a particular human infant before enacting it. You've met Bular, you should know does not make idle threats, no matter how colorful they seem. Which is why I will not be giving you the location of the Bridge, not today and not ever."

"But we could protect you! With your help we could defeat Bular, and then you wouldn't have to worry about that anymore!"

"An act by which we make one friend and one enemy is a losing game; because revenge is a much stronger principle than gratitude," he countered. It sounded like a quote, but Jim couldn't be sure, because Strickler was just Like That, sometimes.

"Fine!" Jim snapped, wondering why he even bothered to feel disappointed. He turned and stomped off, resolutely ignoring whatever parting shot Strickler tried to throw at him.

Not paying attention to where he was going, he almost tripped over Toby, sitting just outside the entrance to the Stronghold.

"Dude!" Toby brushed himself off as he got to his feet, then froze as he got a good look at Jim. "Jim, your face!"

Jim wondered what expression he had on that made Toby react like that – it felt like a chaotic mix of primal fury and abject horror – when he realized that Toby was probably actually reacting to his lack of mask, still lying on the ground where he had thrown it.

Reality crashed down on him again, everything he had just learned pouring through his thoughts in a torrent he couldn't abate, and he sunk to the ground.

"Dammit, I knew we couldn't trust him! I knew I shouldn't have left you alone!" Toby seethed. "Oh, no, nope Jimbo, can't sit there, c'mon, up you get."

Somehow, Toby managed to poke, prod, pull, and push Jim into a nearby alcove hidden from sight while he went back into the Stronghold to retrieve the glamor mask. Jim slumped where he was left, feeling numb. It wasn't the Amulet, after all. He was… his dad was… _six months_ , Strickler said. And Bular…

Rough wood was pressed into his hands. He looked up at Toby concerned face. "C'mon, buddy, let's get you to Blinky's."

Jim nodded. At least his thoughts flying in a million directions at once provided plenty of distraction for Not Thinking about the glamor mask, and it slid on easily.

* * *

 _A/N: Strickler's revenge quote is by Charles Caleb Colton, best known for saying "imitation is the sincerest flattery."_

 _So normally when I set up an AU I like to keep it to a single premise, i.e. what if Jim were half-changeling and Barbara noticed first, and then let all canon divergences follow from that, but here I decided to make an exception and make an additional tweak to what the show tells us about polymorphs - which is, admittedly, not much, and Otto could have just been lying to them about how he got to be a polymorph, he had no reason to be honest._


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: bit of a transitional chapter. apologies for the cliffhanger at the end

* * *

 _"_ _How about if I sleep a bit longer and forget all this nonsense?_ _" -_ Franz Kafka

* * *

When they arrived at the library, Blinky took one look at Jim and steered him to a three-legged stool, which Jim sank onto gratefully, slumping forward to rest his elbows on his knees so he didn't have exert any energy trying to remain upright.

"Great Grumbling Gruesome, what happened?"

Jim grunted, content to let Toby explain -

"I don't know! Jim went to ask Strickler about ghouls, only he would only talk to Jim _alone_ , and then like ten minutes later he ran out, completely freaked!"

\- oh right, Toby _couldn't_ explain.

"What!" Blinky roared, accidentally knocking over a stack of books in his sudden fury. "What has that misbegotten cur done now?! Why, when I get my hands on him, he will _rue the day!"_

He moved as if he were about to stomp off then and there and challenge Strickler to… to a bout of fisticuffs, or something. Jim grabbed onto the nearest arm to stop him. "Blinky, wait!"

Blinky stopped to focus on him, nostrils still flaring but fortunately no longer trying to stomp his way through Trollmarket with malice aforethought. Jim cautiously let go of his arm.

"What happened, Master Jim? What did he do?"

"Strickler didn't do anything except answer my questions. Please don't go after him."

"You know you can't trust anything an Impure has to say. Whatever has you so upset, chances are it's a complete fabrication." He gave what was probably meant to be a reassuring smile.

The lead weight in Jim's stomach writhed like a snake and he had to swallow down the nausea. "No, you're not… you're not listening to me."

Toby and Blinky exchanged a look and sat down on either side of him. "Sorry, Jimbo. Go on, tell us what he said." Blinky started rubbing circles on his back with one hand while squeezing his shoulders with two more - and _oh_ , that was nice, that was what he needed. Toby was at his other side, sitting on a stack of books close enough that their knees knocked together. He was _safe._

"I know…" Jim tried to start but his throat was too tight and no sound escaped. He cleared it and tried again. "I know he's untrustworthy. But he knew things without being told, things that he'd have no way of knowing unless what he was saying was true."

Toby muttered something uncomplimentary about Strickler but Jim knew there wasn't any way he could argue that he'd been lying.

He closed his eyes and focused on the rhythm of Blinky's attentions, grounding himself in the repetition. He struggled to put his thoughts into some sort of order. "So it's, it's not the Amulet. Not the Amulet's fault that I'm turning trollish. My dad - something else I can blame him for. But yeah. The changelings have seen this before, they know what it is."

Jim fisted both hands in his hair, frustrated with his inability to explain anything in a coherent way. He took a deep breath, and started again. "My dad was a changeling. That's what's been happening to me, I've been turning into a changeling. Only it's a really slow process, so it could be several more months before I'm able to change back into human. And until then I'm stuck looking like a _ghoul._ " He spat the last word with as much venom as he could muster and it still didn't feel like enough.

"Ah." Toby said. Then, "oh. That's… that's technically good news?" he offered tentatively. "We now know what it'll take to get you all fleshbagged again."

Jim gave a strangled laugh. "Don't, don't ever say 'fleshbagged' again, it sounds like you're gonna stash my body in a trunk." He sobered. "I won't be, though. Not _really._ I'm never going to go back to being a human again; I'll just be another _impure_ faking it and - "

He was abruptly cut off when Blinky pulled him into a tight embrace. "Jim, _no._ " He could feel his mentor's shoulders hitch with emotion. "Master Jim, I am _sorry_ for my ignorant words earlier. If I had known…" Blinky shook his head in self-recrimination. He held Jim at arms length and gave a somewhat-shaky grin. "You could never be impure, Master Jim. You are our Trollhunter, and a more noble character I have never known."

Jim was momentarily knocked out of his simmering rage by the sudden turn the conversation had taken. "Uh, thanks, Blinky. That really means a lot." Jim hadn't really meant anything by his 'impure' comment, not the way Blinky seemed to take it. It wasn't so much that he was upset to be part-changeling, as he was upset to not be as human as he'd always assumed – and more specifically, he was upset at where that not-all-human bit came from.

"It's just not fair," he complained, pulling free from Blinky to pace in a tight, jerky circle. "He… he was _gone_ " – the word nearly stuck in Jim's throat, it was too big to be voiced aloud – "and he was out of our lives and he never looked back, but he _still_ manages to force his way into my life just to mess things up, and it's not _fair!"_ He yowled the last word, because it _wasn't!_

James Sr. was out of Jim's life. That was his defining characteristic, to the point that Jim didn't think he'd be able to recognize the man if they passed on the street. Jim didn't dwell on his absence. People expected him to, but he didn't, not really. James Lake Sr. was a complete non-entity in Jim's life, and he preferred it that way. He and his mom had each other, and they were better off for it.

But 'blood will out,' apparently, and Jim felt sick to his stomach. "I used to wonder about what kind of a dad I would be. I knew I wanted to… to break the cycle, or whatever. My biggest worry was that I wouldn't know how to be there for them when they needed me. Now, I have to worry about any kids I might have not being human!"

Toby stepped in front of him and blocked him from continuing his frenetic pacing. "Look, Jim. That's not actually all that different from having any other hereditary disease. Not that I think trollishness is a disease!" he hastily backtracked. "Or that having a disease makes someone not human! Ignore my big mouth. Just – you're not the first person to worry about passing something down to your kids. As for the rest of it – " He sighed. "I can't pretend to know what you're going through. I _do_ get blindsided by comparisons to my dad, sometimes. Like if I pick up a book to read, and Nana says how much he loved it. But for me, that connection to him is a good thing, and I get that it would be the complete total opposite for you.

"But Jim. I don't just read the same books as my dad sometimes. I also listen to a lot of the same music as my mom, and I've got 'her laugh,' whatever that means, and I share her love of Sci-Fi. You're not just your dad's kid. You're Dr. L's kid, too." He lowered his voice conspiratorially, "And between you and me, she is _incredible._ Totally amazeballs. The best." Toby chucked Jim's shoulder playfully. "So, you've got, like, a fifty percent chance of turning out alright!"

Jim gave a watery laugh. "Thanks, Tobes. I don't know what I'd do without you. It's just… a lot to come to terms with, I guess. Before, when we thought this was the Amulet's fault, I just kept hoping for some magical cure out there somewhere to make it all better. And instead, the answer we've been looking so hard for is that this was _inevitable._ Like, my god, Tobes, this would have happened even if I'd never become the Trollhunter, only then we would have been in completely over our heads, with no idea what was going on."

"Oh!" Blinky's mouth fell open as something seemed to occur to him, and he stared at Jim, uncharacteristically silent. He dashed to the far corner of the library and started rooting around, returning a moment later with something bundled in his arms.

When he got close, Jim saw that it was a blanket, and before he could say anything Blinky draped it around his shoulders. It was coarse, and heavy (almost as heavy as the weighted blanket he had back home), and he realized it was actually a rug.

But it grounded him regardless, and he felt less like he was going to fly apart into a million pieces, especially when Blinky wrapped all his arms around him, blanket-rug and all, and held on tightly.

"Had I known we ought to be encouraging your trollish development instead of seeking to suppress it, I would have suggested this much sooner."

"… Blinky?"

"Stone needs pressure to metamorphose, does it not?"

Jim peered over Blinky's arms to look to Toby for confirmation; the geology enthusiast nodded and gave Jim a thumbs up.

"You've not had the opportunity to observe many troll whelps – "

"I don't think I've seen _any,_ " Jim corrected.

"Quite, quite. So you are likely unaware that frequent, deep pressure is essential for a youngling's growth and development." Blinky _squeezed_ to emphasize his point, and it felt so good Jim couldn't put up a token protest that he wasn't a _youngling_ , he was sixteen for cryin' out loud.

Toby nodded thoughtfully. "So what I'm hearing is that trolls are really huggy with their kids?" and then, not waiting for a response, he latched onto as much of Jim as he could reach and hugged for all he was worth.

Jim felt – he had no words for how he felt. _Secure_ came close, but so did _warm._ There was a strange duality to feeling so utterly loose and boneless at the same time that he felt more solid and present than he could remember feeling in a long time.

His stomach interrupted the moment with a loud gurgle. Jim blinked blearily, wondering what time it was.

"Ah!" Blinky exclaimed. "I shall procure suitable sustenance posthaste." He made sure to wrap the blanket extra tightly around Jim before he left.

* * *

Jim was a little worried that what Blinky considered 'suitable' might not be so great for Toby, but his friend was unconcerned – and rightly so, it would turn out. Blinky brought back two plates of steaming meat, cooked all the way through and smelling heavenly. No one commented when he took his mask off to eat, for which he was thankful, and he tore ravenously into the food. Jim was definitely going to ask how it was prepared because none of the meats he cooked these days came out half this good anymore. But complete and total exhaustion weighed him down, and he didn't get farther than confirming it wasn't something too strange (it was goat), before he started nodding off.

Blinky noticed, of course, despite Jim's attempts to stay alert. "Rest, Master Jim. Everything will be alright."

"But it's the middle of the day!" he protested.

His mentor blinked asynchronously at him, clearly not seeing why that would be an issue. Right, trolls were nocturnal, if they even had a sleep cycle at all (Jim wasn't convinced they did).

"Right." It was a Saturday. They didn't have rehearsal today, and he had nowhere else he needed to be. What could a short nap hurt? "Toby, are you gonna – "

"I'm gonna beat my high score on Flappy-Bird, that's what I'm gonna do." Toby waved his phone in Jim's direction. "Still got eighty percent battery, that should last me a good long while."

"okay, good." He stood up, picked the nearest Jim-sized pile of books, threw the blanket over it, and collapsed on top of it without further ado. He closed his eyes. Despite his bone-deep exhaustion, sleep came slowly, and he drifted in a half-awake state for who knew how long, aware only of the course fabric beneath him, the occasional _clump_ of Blinky's footsteps as he moved about, and the smell of books that was so pervasive it covered everything else. Eventually, his awareness sank deeper into true sleep.

* * *

When he woke up some unknown length of time later, he felt much more alert and refreshed. Toby was still around, though he'd moved from his place next to Jim to a spot further away, where he'd constructed a fort for himself out of books. Jim yawned, fishing out his phone to check the time. 6:05. Wow, it was a lot later than he'd have guessed. Oh, and he had a new voicemail.

When he pressed play, his blood ran cold.

 _*beep* "We have your mother, Trollhunter. If you want to see her alive, bring the Amulet to the intersection of 35 and Pearson. Come alone." *click*_

* * *

A/N: I didn't manage to work the explanation into the story, but I've got a reason the meat tastes good, besides trolls liking goat meat (source: the Three Billy Goats Gruff). In the show, Jim's steak dinner tastes raelly off to him, but it can't be that trolls don't like cooked meat since we see the Quaggawumps eating roast flamingo and Toby's eated roast something in Trollmarket before without ill effect. So I'm going to say it has to do with preparation; namely, trolls don't remove any fur/feathers/skin when cooking their meat. Even if it is later removed so that it is identical to a steak prepared the normal way, it was still metaphysically cooked whole and will be palatable to trolls.


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: I am so, so sorry for the long wait - I genuinely thought I'd get this done months ago. At least it's extra-long to make up for it?_

CHAPTER CONTENT WARNINGS: off-screen abduction. Claustrophobic conditions. canon-typical violence, including dismemberment. Bular disparaging Kanjigar's suicide. Near-vomiting. Battlefield first-aid. Dissociation. Brief strong language. If I missed any PLEASE let me know

 _Without further ado I am proud to present The Battle of Two Buicks! (because the Janus Order doesn't know that they need Jim himself and not just his amulet, they don't see any reason to give up the location of the Bridge, and stage their confrontation elsewhere. Also, because Recipe for Disaster occurred a little sooner than it did in canon, this battle no longer takes place on Opening Night)_

* * *

"In the fight between yourself and the world, back the world." - Franz Kafka

* * *

Barbara woke up without any memory of falling asleep. Disoriented, she tried to sit up and immediately bumped her head on something hard and unyielding. "Shit!" When she lifted one hand to feel it out, her other hand went with it.

Her heart started pounding with the sudden adrenaline dump given to her by _discovering her hands were bound together_. She stayed very, very still as she fought the overwhelming urge to thrash and fight and _get free._

Panicking would be very, very bad.

The stuffy, musty air of what she was beginning to suspect was a car trunk whistled through her nose as she tried to slow her breathing; it would do her no good if she passed out from hyperventilating. What did she know, and what could she do about it?

First off, her hands were bound in front of her with what felt like rope. A quick test revealed her legs were likewise bound at the knees and ankles. Looking around, she still couldn't make out more than the vaguest outlines, and even then she wasn't sure her eyes weren't just inventing things to look at. Feeling around – _very_ cautiously, the last thing she needed was to stab herself with something unexpectedly sharp – Barbara was able to establish that she was definitely in the trunk of a car; if the coarse, worn carpeting wasn't enough of a clue, the oddly-shaped plastic sides of her prison all but confirmed it.

Fortunately, the car did not seem to be moving, and she did not smell any exhaust that would suggest they'd recently been in motion. Unfortunately, she had no idea who her abductors were, or where they might have taken her.

The last thing she remembered clearly was heading to her car after work. Then – nothing. Had there been footsteps coming up behind, or was she projecting expectations onto her own memories?

And now, here she was, an unknown length of time later, waking up bound hand and foot in the trunk of a car. Well, at least this was one problem she had some idea how to get out of; they'd covered fighting with bound hands and escaping from zip ties in krav maga class, so this was not, in fact, the first time she'd ever been tied up (it was the first time with rope, though, which probably couldn't be snapped with the right sharp movement the way zip ties could be).

She tried to wriggle out of her bindings, twisting this way and that as though trying to get out of a wrist grab, but had no success – it looked like she'd need to cut the ropes to get free. She felt tears prick at her eyes and took several deep breaths to push down the feeling of being utterly overwhelmed. She was fine, she was alert and uninjured and in a good position to get herself out of this mess. Deep breath. Go.

Friction. That was something that could be used to weaken zip-ties, and it would work on rope as well, no matter how time consuming it would be. Barbara groped for the seam in the trunk's carpeting where it met the sides, and tore at it until she was able to peel it away. Underneath, the bare metal of the frame offered several nice edges to choose from. Feeling out the one that offered her the best angle, she set to work, moving her hands up and down in short jerky motions, pressing the rope as hard against it as she could.

It was labor without discernible progress, her arms shaking with the effort and the mantra of _'up. down. up. down.'_ looping endlessly through her head. But then her hands slammed unexpectedly downwards, and it took her a stunned moment to realize the rope was snapped. Yes! She immediately attacked the ropes around her ankles, fingers flying to the knots – a task complicated by the cramped confines but she would _make_ it work. Soon enough she was tossing aside the last of her bindings.

She took a moment to catch her breath, and wipe the sweat from her forehead. Okay.

That was Step One complete. Now time for Step Two: Actually Find a Way Out of This Trunk. With her newfound freedom of movement, she spread her arms out to feel out her space better and orient herself. If she had to guess, the lid of the trunk opened behind her, and she was facing towards the front of the car. There was a small recessed rectangle in front of her, possibly a trunk access from the backseat? Unfortunately it was too small for her to fit through, even if she somehow managed to get it open.

It was trickier than she thought to flip herself over to face the other way – her legs were too long and the space too cramped, and her knees kept banging into everything – but she managed. She closed her eyes (not that it made any difference, in the dark) and tried to bring back twelve-year-old memories, of when Jim had gotten stuck in the trunk of James's brand-new Pontiac. It wasn't the first time Jim had managed to crawl into a small, dark space, but it was the first time doing so put him in imminent danger.

Jim had pocketed the car keys when they hadn't been looking, and slipped off when James should have been paying attention to unlock the trunk and crawl inside, taking the keys with him. Barbara had been beside herself with worry, and was fully prepared to smash her way in with an axe if that's what it took.

James had offered an alternative solution, which was to talk Jim through the process of pulling the emergency release hatch.

(Jim had popped out, no worse for wear after his ordeal, honestly quite confused by why his parents were so worked up)

(Afterwards, James still refused to let her park her station wagon in the garage in place of his car, despite the fact that with its large cargo space incompletely divided from the back seat there was no possible way for Jim to get trapped in it. James had argued that her Volvo was already six years old, and his shiny new car deserved the protection the garage offered)

In the here and now, Barbara had no way of knowing what model car she was trapped in, and if the trunk release mechanism was the same. Still, she groped near what she thought was the trunk's latch, until her seeking fingers brushed up against something that felt like a thin cord. Nearly shaking with nerves, she grabbed tight and pulled.

The latch clicked, and the lid of the trunk popped open half an inch.

Barbara held her breath. Fighting every instinct to _get the fuck out of the trunk right now,_ she remained where she was, her hands locked in defensive fists in front of her face, legs drawn back and ready to kick out an anyone who came to investigate.

She waited, tense, every nerve on edge, straining her ears to hear anything, anything at all. But after two full minutes, it seemed no one was near enough (or observant enough) to notice the trunk lid pop. Relaxing muscles that shook with unspent effort, Barbara shuffled closer to the opening, close enough to press her eye to the crack and look out. Cool night air – _fresh air! –_ teased her nose, and she greedily sucked it in.

She could see that it was nighttime, and given that she wasn't ravenously hungry, she was confident she could amend that to _still_ nighttime – she couldn't have lost more than a couple hours at most. Cold, bright lights illuminated a row of cars in front of her, and behind that she could make out more cars. A parking lot? There didn't seem to be any people around.

Then, a roar, unlike any she had ever heard before. Deep and guttural, it raised all the hairs on her neck. That, that _had_ to be a troll (suddenly, her abduction made a lot more sense, if it was troll-related). She heard a crash somewhere off to her right, a boulder-like _CLACK_ of stone-on-stone, and shouted voices too far off to be understood. Ah, a troll fight. While that was extremely worrisome, it also sounded distant – at least forty yards away – so, taking a gamble that whatever troll had kidnapped her was thoroughly distracted, Barbara surged out of the trunk and hit the ground in a roll. She bounced to her feet and immediately ducked for cover around the side of the car she'd been imprisoned in, to take better stock of her surroundings.

She was surrounded by cars on all sides, and now she could see the many lurid price tags they all had prominently displayed in their windows. Overhead, strings of triangular flags fluttered, and there was a squat brick building fifty yards in front of her with large glass windows – a showroom. She recognized this place, it was Bert's Bargain Cars & Trucks, the used car dealership with the ubiquitous, hilariously poorly-produced commercials.

From the direction of the trollfight there were brief flickers of light – sharp light on drawn blades, locked in combat, throwing off occasional sparks. The hulking combatants were difficult to make out, but neither could possibly be Jim. Her relief was short-lived when she spotted the telltale glow of Daylight engaged with another troll a short distance away from the two loudest combatants. Her heart leapt into her throat, but there was _nothing_ she could do to help him, and she had to wrestle down the urge to scream her frustration to the sky.

Movement in her peripheral – her gaze snapped to another distant figure, large and dark and moving away from the fight. She thought she recognized Aaarrrgghh's profile, and sighed with relief. A familiar face would be most welcome right now, but as she watched, she realized he was chasing a (relatively) smaller figure, and there was no way she'd be able to catch up to him. Drat.

Off to her left and not far away was a car-hauler with two tiers of cars. Behind her, there was just one more row of cars before the lot ended with a ten-foot high chain-link fence topped with barbed wire.

A clatter nearby, and she whirled towards the sound. Something cat-sized with triangular ears and glowing eyes crept over the hood of a car not ten feet away from where she crouched. Goblin! Now that she was looking for it, she saw more small shapes moving around in the shadows. Barbara tried to breathe as silently as possible (the strain of doing so seemed to sound thunder-loud in her ears), her legs already burning from remaining in her crouched position but she didn't dare move. Goblins sensed movement, right? Or wait, no, that was from _Triassic Zoo_ , the movie with the T-rex. What _was_ it that she needed to know about goblins? Don't kill one unless you want to fight them all, but there was something else she couldn't remember –

(something to do with their sense of smell; she kept coming back to that but couldn't remember why that was important)

– a sudden loud _wham!_ interrupted her thoughts. She jerked in surprise, banging her elbow loudly, but all the goblins were equally distracted by the new arrival on the scene, a troll that had landed on a nearby car's roof, now dented. The troll rose from his crouched position, and with a jolt Barbara recognized that it was Walter.

* * *

"Take that, you odious malcontent!"

Aaarrrgghh peeled another metal circle off a nearby car and passed it to Blinky, who had better aim. His partner hurled the disc at their opponent, an orange changeling with a cowlike face, who slapped the object out of the air with his long, flexible tail. Aaarrrgghh hastily scooted Blinky back behind the vehicle they were sheltering behind before the changeling could retaliate. He tipped the car on its side and braced it against the changeling's rushing charge, grunting with the impact as shattered glass rained down on the ground around them.

The changeling sprang backwards from the wreck, snarling, and Aaarrrgghh – carefully telegraphing his movements – shoved the broken car towards him, giving his opponent plenty of time to dodge yet forcing him back regardless. It was a fine edge to balance on, between causing no harm and stopping their foe, and Aaarrrgghh felt it keenly, a blade's edge he knew he was bearing down harder on as the fight progressed; soon enough it would cut him open. His usual strategy of intimidating any adversaries into retreating hadn't worked, and Aaarrrgghh had needed to find new ways to drive this particular changeling away from Jim's fight, and take him out of play.

"You mangy cur!" Blinky lobbed another broken-off piece of car at their foe, who hissed when it landed a glancing shoulder blow but was otherwise undeterred.

The changeling advanced, spinning his chosen weapon – a heavy spiked ball on a length of chain, attached to a stout handle – and grinning. Aaarrrgghh growled softly, fretful. He might not know much about strat-a-gems, despite being a general in Gunmar's army (whose strategery had almost exclusively consisted of 'overwhelm all enemies with numbers and ferocity'), but he knew that letting the changeling get close enough to land a blow would be a _very_ bad idea.

So he lumbered back just far enough to grab another car, keeping Blinky sheltered with his body (who, frustratingly, seemed recklessly determined to rush head-first into the fray). However, as soon as he laid a hand on the car – this one black and more rounded – the changeling stopped his advance, dropping his brutal weapon, his eyes wide with horror.

"Not the '67 Buick!"

Blinky raised an eyebrow at Aaarrrgghh, and Aaarrrgghh grinned wolfishly in response.

* * *

"Give up now, and your death will not last more than one day."

Draal snarled and swung his axe at Bular. The man who killed his father. His enemy. "I will _never_ give up! I will not stop until you are dead by my hand, and you _will_ suffer for my father's death!"

Bular grinned, and it was a terrible sight to behold. Dread ran down Draal's back but he would not falter, he would not back down. _This was it_. One of them was going to die tonight, and Draal was determined it would not be him.

"That's not what your father did. Don't you want to know how he died? He _gave up._ "

Draal saw red, and disregarding centuries of training, charged forward with the singular thought that he would End. Him. Now.

With laughable ease, Bular got under his guard and pushed Draal's axe harmlessly away, punching him in the face so hard he saw stars. And then he _laughed,_ as he pushed the still-off-balance Draal to the ground.

Draal rolled out the way of his stomp, and rolled _into_ Bular to knock him back, though he hadn't had the momentum to really put any power into it. He regained his feet, and leveled his axe at his foe. "My father would _never –_ "

Moving with unexpected speed, Bular darted close, his sword slicing downwards towards Draal's head. Draal rolled to the side, dodging the attack but nearly losing his grip on his axe when Bular followed up with a kick that crashed hard against his fingers.

Draal recovered, swung his axe in an uppercut that Bular deflected with his sword. Then Draal once again found himself ducking backwards from Bular's reaching claws – the Gumm-Gumm favored grappling and _brawling_ to armed combat, and he was very, very good at it.

"Don't be a fool," Bular scoffed. "You recovered his remains – was that the pose of a man who died fighting?"

Draal felt as though the ground beneath his feet had been overturned. He faltered, suddenly plunged backwards into the memory of assembling his father in the Hero's Forge. Overcome with grief, unable to express it, putting the pieces together one at a time. Long, painstaking hours where there just hadn't been _room_ for anything except the mechanical placement of one more piece, moving towards completion (towards closure?) He hadn't… he hadn't really _looked._ He hadn't seen what was now obvious – arms crossed over his chest, Kanjigar the Courageous had not swung his sword to his last breath.

In the here-and-now, Bular pressed his advantage, swinging towards Draal's midsection. Draal deflected the slice with his armguard – it nicked his flesh, but that didn't matter. Draal shook his head to clear it. What mattered was that his father _would_ be avenged, for however it came about, there was no doubt in his mind that Bular was responsible.

With a wordless roar, Draal charged forward.

* * *

Barbara's first thought was _What is he doing out of troll prison?!  
_

Before she could even process that, though, another troll charged out of the darkness next to Walter, running lightly on their hooved feet. Slender and pointy, they weren't a troll Barbara recognized – but then again, the number of trolls she could name on sight could be counted on one hand with fingers left over. Who were they? Help from Trollmarket to capture an escaped changeling? Was Walter the mastermind behind her abduction?

Walter reached up to his collar and threw a knife at the other troll, who blocked it with a sickle-like blade with seeming ease. Undeterred, Walter threw three more in quick succession, the last one finding its mark in the unknown troll's shoulder.

"Give it up, Nomura! You haven't the skill to defeat me!"

Nomura – Barbara knew that name! Ack, so, not help from Trollmarket, after all. Why were two changelings fighting each other?

"Traitor!" The new troll, Nomura, snarled, pulling the knife from her shoulder and casting it derisively aside. "Betrayer! I can't believe you - You! - would side with the fleshbags!"

Wait, what? Walter was a traitor, now? That was _very_ interesting.

Barbara missed the next few exchanges between the two, focused as she was on the goblin that had wandered within five feet of her. It was sniffing the air, and then turned with unerring precision to look directly at her. _Damn damn damn fuck damn._ She finally remembered what it was she'd been forgetting about goblins – _they could smell fear_.

Barbara tensed as it got closer. Killing it was still out of the picture (she didn't need to bring the whole hive down on her head), but maybe she could –

Moving snake-swift, she lunged forward once it was just barely within arm's reach. Her hands found their target (much, much narrower than it would be on a human), and she quickly shifted into a chokehold, ignoring the way its long nails raked at her forearms, drawing blood in places. She knew there were three different targets to a chokehold: nerve, blood, or air. Barbara didn't know enough about goblin physiology to attempt a nerve pinch, nor did she know where the arteries where to cut off blood supply to the brain; she would just have to cut off oxygen to the lungs by compressing the windpipe, and hope she didn't accidentally kill it.

In what felt like no time at all, the goblin went limp in her grasp, and she released it (then released the breath she'd been holding, trying once more to bring her racing heartbeat under control). The goblin's chest rose and fell gently — not dead, then. She let out a breath of relief and returned her attention to the ongoing troll fight. They had moved further away from her hiding spot, though they were still worryingly close.

Nomura was fast and agile, and skilled with dual wielding her swords, giving her a tight defense and control over the range of the fight, but Barbara thought Walter might have the advantage. He conserved energy, moving only as much as needed and no more, in contrast to her dizzying flips. While Nomura's spinning around generated momentum and her rapid attacks made a formidable offense that would overwhelm most opponents, it was less ideal in a long drawn-out fight, and Walter was clearly familiar with her fighting style, able to anticipate and counter most attacks.

More goblins converged on the scene to watch the fight between the two changelings, none choosing a side, and Barabara kept a wary eye on them, though no more of the spindly-legged creatures came near her hiding place though, distracted as they were. Walter managed to maneuver Nomura so her back was against the car-hauler, forcing her to stand her ground and limiting her mobility. It did not last long, though, as with a frustrated snarl she used the hauler as a springboard to flip over Walter's head and reverse their positions.

She pressed her advantage with a series of frenzied slashes that Walter dodged by a hair's breadth, her swords sending up sparks where they struck the car behind him. Her last blow bit deep into an elevated Toyota and lodged there. Nomura gave it a frantic tug, bracing herself with her feet against the trailer for leverage, desperately fending off Walter's repeated stabs at her vulnerable position with her other sword.

When her sword finally came free, she tumbled backwards in a flurry of limbs.

Walter turned on her, triumphant.

And the car the sword was lodged in began to tip.

A warning shout rose to Barbara's lips but she'd never know if she was too quiet or just too late as the car tipped over and fell down on top of the green changeling.

* * *

Jim winced at the sound of a distant crash elsewhere in the car lot, hoping everyone on Team Trollhunters was okay, but he forced his worries aside - he couldn't afford the distraction. After Draal had squared off with Bular and Aaarrrgghh and Blinky had chased off a troll with a long thick tail and a rather bovine face, Jim had found himself face-to-face with a troll that _smiled_ at him. His opponent was barrel-chested and shark-toothed, whose skin looked gray in the washed-out light but that Jim suspected was actually some shade of purple.

" _Guten Abend_. How happy I am to make your acquaintance."

"Wish I could say the same, but…" Jim flexed his grip on Daylight's hilt.

The troll grinned widely, and Jim didn't like the way he was staring at his face, possessive and almost hungry. Jim had foregone his mask, as it would only distract him in the expected fight, and he didn't want to risk it getting damaged. Besides, he was sure Nomura would have spread the news already, anyway, so he'd already lost whatever surprise advantage being a ghoul might have given him, if any.

"Oh, you will change you mind soon enough, _jungen Wechselbalg,_ " the troll said cryptically, before he giggled - giggled! - and an unexpected flash of green light left Jim blinking spots out of his eyes. When his vision cleared, he was startled to see that where there had been a troll maybe a foot taller than Blinky, now there was a much smaller human man wearing a black coat and fedora.

Jim tensed, an uneasy feeling unspooling in his gut. Why would a changeling give up his stronger, more durable troll form in a fight? _Why would he let Jim see his face?!_ He thought he'd heard somewhere that if a kidnapper ever did that, it meant they had no intention of letting their victim leave alive. Jim shifted his stance into something more defensive.

Maybe it was intended as an insult, turning human to show Jim how little he thought of his fighting abilities. Or maybe – and Jim hated that he could tell it was working – the changeling was expecting Jim to hesitate to strike out at someone human-looking with a sword.

Jim didn't think he had an anti-troll bias that would make him consider them more acceptable targets for violence, but on the other hand, no human had ever tried to kill him with malice aforethought. So alright, so he had some human-centric biases still, but the fact of the matter was that he could swing his sword full-strength at a troll and the troll could take it. They might get banged up a bit or lose a limb, but they wouldn't be immediately eviscerated the way a human would. Fleshbags were inherently fleshy.

"My name is Otto Scaarbach. You don't want to fight me, not really. We are, how you say, _cousins._ "

Just as Jim finished nerving himself up to go against a human-shaped changeling in a probably-lethal fight (to prove his smug face _wrong_ ), there was another flash – but instead of the expected return to troll form, the changeling was now lanky and freckly, ten years younger at least and with anachronistic sideburns.

 _A polymorph!  
_

"Ahh. You begin to understand, I think. There is so much I could teach you, so much you need to learn."

"I've already got a mentor, so thanks but no thanks."

"Oh? So sure you are ready for what will happen next, then? From your appearance, you seem to be, hmm, two months along? And you've been playing in the sun, tut tut – learned your lesson, I hope." He giggled again.

Jim was not going to be tempted by a monologuing villain named Evil McEvilman, no way no how. "No. Thanks." he shot back more forcefully, tightening his hold on Daylight's grip.

Which didn't mean he was completely stoick on the inside, with no emotional reaction at all. He felt a crushing weight for the lost opportunity, for Answers he would never have. It was a door of Opportunity that he hadn't known even _existed_ before, granted, but slamming the metaphorical door shut still hurt. Some small hope he'd had, that he'd be able to find more answers, that someone out there could tell him what to expect, what was going to happen next – that hope got crushed, _he_ crushed it, and it _ached_.

But he was in the middle of a fight, and there'd be time to feel sorry for himself later.

"Join us! You will never belong among the humans, or the _Steinernhirn_ – but in the Janus Order, you could have prestige! Power!"

"Do you have cookies?" Jim snarked back, heart pounding.

" _Was?_ Cookies?"

"Because you want me to join the Dark Side? It's – oh, nevermind."

"I just want to help you," the polymorph wheedled, changing shape once more into someone much older, Toby's Nana's age, who Jim thought he might have seen around the town park before.

"You're working for Gunmar," Jim said through gritted teeth. "You're _not_ helping."

Scaarbach glanced over at where Draal was going head-to-head (literally at times) against Bular. He lowered his voice. "Gunmar, the Dark One, he is… a military leader. He will lead us to glory, but he is, hmm, not our Supreme Leader. Amongst changelings, that role belongs to someone else. Someone _more_ than Gunmar could ever hope to be. _She_ is our Creator, our light. Everything we do is for Her glory. And if you join us, She will take care of you as well."

A pit settled in Jim's stomach, even as a shiver worked its way down his spine. He realized that the polymorph was a zealot, a True Believer, and suddenly it was all too easy to imagine that he might have… taken _drastic_ action to prove his loyalty, once upon a time.

"Enough!" Jim barked. "Either surrender, or fight – those are your options. I'm _done_ talking."

The not-really-an-old-man transformed into Jackie Chan, which was disorienting enough that Jim totally failed to dodge the kick to his abdomen. "Very well," his attacker said, now looking like Principal Levit.

Jim rolled to the side to get some distance, enough room to swing Daylight effectively. He drew the sword back, then faltered when faced with a cherubic 9-year-old in a Scout uniform.

The Scout didn't last long, quickly turning back into a troll and swiping a claw at Jim's head (Jim breathed an internal sigh of relief). Finally, he was back on familiar footing. Finally, the fight was _on.  
_

* * *

Toby crept between the cars, trying to keep track of the various fights happening all around him as he searched for Dr. Lake. It had been decided that he was the most unobtrusive, and could slip through the car lot while all the baddies were distracted with the fighting and rescue Jim's mom.

His Wingman and Blinky were getting close to the far end of the lot, any further and they'd end up on Ormund Street. Draal and Bular were still duking it out, leaving a swath of destruction in their wake, and Jim was fighting someone who looked human, but probably wasn't. Strickler was... _not_ Toby's idea, but when Jim had run back to his cage after receiving the ransom message and offered him his freedom in exchange for helping to rescue his mom, Strickler had looked like someone had stabbed him in the heart and he had agreed readily.

Toby had wanted to shake Jim and make him realize that _of course_ the guy would agree to anything that would unlock his prison, but they _did_ need all the help they could get. He guessed it was worth the risk to have an extra fighter on their side, so that even if Strickler flaked, they weren't really any worse off than they'd been before. Besides, the expression on Strickler's face when he'd learned Dr. L had been kidnapped… Toby shivered at the memory, rubbing goosebumps from his arms.

He nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of a crash nearby, like something massive and metal had smashed into the ground. There was a patter of sound from somewhere in front of him, and Toby adjusted his cookpot helmet, trying to step as quietly as possible. The sound grew louder quickly and resolved into many footsteps and angry screeching, and Toby hastily ducked out of sight as the museum lady troll ran past, pursued by goblins.

Well, that wasn't a sight you saw every day. He shifted his course in the direction she had come from, until he came upon a sight straight out of an action movie – the aftermath of one, at least. All the cars in the immediate vicinity were smashed, crushed, dented, and generally battle-scarred. Several looked like they had sword slashes gouged into them. There was also a large truck parked in the car lot, one of the kinds used to transport a dozen cars at once from place to place. It looked like one of the cars had fallen off it, a puddle of green goo beneath it, and – something person-sized dashed across the open space towards the fallen car. Toby froze, before he went weak-kneed with relief to recognize Jim's mom.

"Dr. L! Hey!"

She turned to look at him only briefly, before she went back to what she'd been examining before. Then Toby got a good look at what she was looking at, and back-pedaled quickly, blanching.

"Omigosh, omigosh, omigosh." He felt close to hyperventilating and also throwing up. It was a toss-up which would happen first. _Ugh, 'toss up.'_ Even thinking the words started to tip the scales in favor of puking his guts out, but he managed to repress the urge.

Mr. Strickler's arm was… was… Toby didn't actually know how bad it really _was_ because it was pinned underneath the car, but he highly doubted it would be anything close to approaching 'fine.' "Omigosh, omigosh."

"Toby, breathe." Dr. Lake directed him forcefully, without looking up from what she was doing.

Toby tried to follow her instructions, shifting his focus to Strickler's face to avoid looking at… other things.

Strickler, for his part, didn't look so hot. His teeth were gritted and his eyes unfocused – they were hardly glowing at all. Dr. Lake did something, and he gasped sharply, letting his breath out in a long hiss.

"I don't… how similar are changelings to trolls? If you were human, you'd definitely need a tourniquet - there's risk to your kidneys, when muscle tissue gets crushed like this, but I don't know if you even _have_ kidneys, and – "

Strickler cut her off, placing his good hand fumblingly on her own. "I'm… more like a human… than a troll… so far as that's… con-concerned." His voice, already plenty raspy to begin with, somehow got even more so as he struggled to speak through teeth gritted in pain.

"Okay. Tourniquet it is." Dr. L crouched over him and did something – Toby guessed she was probing the injury, or whatever.

"How… how bad…?"

"I won't know more until we get this car off you, won't know for certain without x-rays, but it looks like there's a good chance you'll lose the arm. I'm… sorry."

Strickler just breathed heavily for several moments, his eyes glazed and unfocused. With a small shake of his head, his attention sharpened. "'Desperate affairs require desperate measures.' Admiral Lord Horatio Nelson."

"...Right." She finally turned to look at Toby. "Can you find a car jack? There could be one underneath a spare tire in a trunk, or maybe underneath the driver's seat. Do you know what a jack looks like?" Toby nodded mutely. "Do you think you could do that?"

"Yeah, of course, but… how will I get into a car to look?

"Find one that's already been busted open; there's plenty around."

"Right. Okay. Copy that." He turned to leave, then turned back. "Do you need my belt? Y'know, for the tourniquet?"

"I've got it covered." She pulled some seatbelt out of the car that was pinning Strickler, and started cutting off a length with a knife she pulled from the changeling's collar.

Toby dashed to the nearest wreck (which had some suspiciously hand-sized dents in it). The front windshield was just so much safety glass, and Toby reached into his backpack to pull out the hefty pair of wirecutters he'd brought to get into the car lot and used it to knock the last of the glass loose so he could clamber in. He hoped the car he picked had a jack under the seat, because he'd hate to waste time trying to figure out how to get the trunk open.

He was in luck – after just a bit of fumbling, he managed to work the jack free. He rushed back to Dr. Lake and Mr. Strickler, clutching his prize tightly to his chest, almost slipping in a puddle of green goo at the base of the wreck – a smushed goblin, he realized, piecing the detail together with the goblins he'd seen chasing that other changeling. Toby dropped to his knees in a spot that was ichor-free and wedged the jack under the car.

Dr. Lake looked over his placement to make sure the car's frame was supported, before she nodded and went back to managing Strickler's arm. The seatbelt seemed to be in place, and Dr. L was slowly rotating a small metal rod to cinch the binding even tighter. Toby got to work, pumping the jack's handle up and down, galvanized by the fact that there was an actual real medical emergency in front of him, holy shit.

It didn't take much, in the end, to get the car high enough for Strickler to be pulled free, grimacing and growling as they unavoidably jostled him. Once Dr. L finished looking over the binding to make sure it was secure, Strickler started to shakily get to his feet.

"What do you think you're doing?!" Jim's mom tried to push him back down, but. Troll. Even injured, Strickler was crazy strong.

Strickler rose to his full height and only swayed a little bit. "You've done a marvelous job; rest assured, my kidneys are safe."

"And when you pass out from shock?" Dr. Lake snapped back. "I'm not going to scrape you off the ground a second time."

"It's not as though we can remain here." Strickler's tone was scathing, and even though he wasn't addressing him, Toby still felt a pit form in his stomach, born of the memory of what it felt like to forget his homework in Mr. Strickler's class. Not fun.

Dr. L wavered, blinking as she seemed to remember her surroundings. "Oh. But… Jim."

"The best thing you can do to help him is to _get yourself to safety._ "

"That's - no! We have to help him!"

Strickler snarled and moved like he wanted to grab her and drag her away. Toby, all his self-preservation instincts deserting him at once, stepped between them and held up his hands in warning. "Hey! Back off!"

"Domzalski." Strickler sneered. "I know history was never your strongest subject, so perhaps it's unreasonable to expect you to be able to understand anything of tactics. I will speak plainly, then: you are human, and there is nothing you can do to help."

Before Toby could put Rule 3 to good use – injured arm or no, Strickler was asking for it – Dr. Lake put a hand on his shoulder and steered him so he was no longer directly in front of her.

"Walter, I can't, I can't be helpless anymore. My son is out there, fighting for his life, and I…" her voice cracked. "And I can't help him. Nothing I do is _enough._ He wouldn't even be here right now if I hadn't been grabbed, what a stupid cliché, I can't…"

"You help him." Toby hated to see adults cry. It was the worst thing in the world. "You help him by loving him and supporting him. You wouldn't know this, but I've seen Jim fight before and after he told you, and he's stronger, now. Not, physically, not really." Toby struggled to pin down what exactly had changed in the way Jim fought to make him so certain of what he was saying. "He's always been an anxious ball of nerves, but he doesn't second-guess himself as much when he's training in the Forge. Like, he knows he's got people who will catch him if he falls. And hey, you rescued yourself before I even found you, so that cliché can suck it."

"There, see?" Strickler spoke as though he had just won the argument. Toby stuck his tongue out at him. "You _do_ help Jim, by _remaining alive._ Nomura won't be occupied with those goblins forever, and then she'll come back. We need to leave, now."

Barbara's face hardened, implacable. "We need to hotwire a car."

* * *

Jim couldn't say how long he'd been fighting. It was something he'd noticed about being in combat (the adrenaline, maybe) that made everything exist in an unending Now. Still, the thought managed to worm its way into his mind that this fight needed to end _quickly_ , because Jim's stamina would wear out well before his opponent's did.

Although, maybe Scaarbach was more worn-out than he seemed. He wasn't shapeshifting as often as he had at the start, and Jim suspected there was an energy cost to changing one's form so rapidly.

Sweat beaded on Jim's forehead. He tried to tune out the polymorph's villainous monologue and focus on the fight, but it was hard. Jim felt cut open, vulnerable in a way he had not prepared for, facing a polymorph, his future.

And then it got worse.

Scaarbach changed again, this time into a smallish troll about Jim's height, whose appearance looked familiar and weirdly human but Jim couldn't place it - and then, horrified, he _could_.

– the changeling grinned, baring small tusks not yet fully grown, and Jim _understood_ , and

then

he

 _froze_.

He couldn't move his body. Mostly because it didn't feel like his body anymore.

His body was a separate thing from himself. He watched, a silent observer, as another body that looked like, like _his_ closed the distance between them, swinging an imitation Daylight. Sluggishly, Jim raised a hand that wasn't his to block. The two Daylights clanged together, and distantly he thought there might have been a prickling buzz in his fingers.

The truth he'd been running from was staring him in the face, was quite literally attacking him, but Jim could feel no emotion. He was scooped out, hollowed out, empty inside.

Block, parry, strike, block. Jim clumsily moved the (his?) body on pure muscle memory. Scaarbach was still talking, but Jim couldn't hear him anymore. That was nice. And there wasn't really a point to listening, was there? Nothing the polymorph could say would make Jim change sides.

Block, parry, strike, block. Jim fought in a dreamlike state, trying not to stare at his opponent's barely-tapered ears poking through a veritable mane of messy, tangled dark hair, the jaundiced eyes that looked more sickly than anything, narrowed in anger. He didn't want to see, but as is the way in dreams, he didn't feel like he had any control.

Nothing felt quite real, nothing except… except Daylight.

Another clumsy block, his doppelgänger's attack slicing a thin, long cut on his forearm that he could almost feel.

Jim concentrated on his sword. It was conjured from his will, he knew, daylight made physical through metaphysical means. Draal had described treating his sword as an extension of his body, but Jim realized in a moment of stunning clarity that for a Trollhunter, it went deeper than that - this sword was an extension of his will, his soul, the part of Jim that was _Jim_ and was not his body. Daylight was a part of him.

The next time their swords clashed, Jim took the initiative to twist his grip, sliding Daylight so its point connected, drawing a line of purple blood across the changeling's cheek. Jim felt satisfaction well up in him, his first real emotion since he'd frozen up.

Destiny wasn't just something stretching out ahead of him – it also stretched backwards into his past, timeless. He was chosen to be the Trollhunter because he was _meant_ to be the Trollhunter, because this was his purpose. He became aware of his heartbeat, pounding loudly in his head, and then he was once more in his own body.

His opponent snarled at him, and Jim thought the expression looked ugly. But not because of its trollish features, but because it was cruel without rhyme or reason. A new awareness crept over him that should have been obvious from the start: Scaarbach was a 'monster' because of what he'd presumably done to his human parents, because he served Bular with relish, because of his _actions.  
_

Jim saw how easily Otto changed from one face to another. He saw, too, how the polymorph didn't really change at all. Always the same insidious smile. Always cajoling, trying to persuade Jim to the Dark Side.

Jim planted his feet. The sword was an extension of his self; the amulet, warm against his heart, was infusing him with literal magic. Fake!Daylight, in contrast, was not an extension of fake!Jim's self (Jim wasn't even sure how real the sword was; he didn't understand how changelings managed to conjure physical items when they changed, but for the sake of everyone's sense of modesty, he was glad they _could_ ).

Fake!Jim hadn't practiced for hours in the Hero's Forge with that blade, didn't feel the amulet beat warm against his chest in counterpoint to his own heartbeat. The polymorph was counting on Jim to be off-balance, put off by his appearance – and it had worked. But Jim was done with that. He found that he was, abruptly, angry. He was absolutely furious – how _dare_ this changeling use _his own face_ against him.

With a roar, Jim went on the offensive. Daylight flashed out, precise and lethal, in strike after strike. Taken aback, the changeling stumbled backwards, struggling to keep up. He shifted back into his troll form and headbutted Jim, knocking him back, but Jim recovered and regained the lost ground swiftly.

They were interrupted by a crackle of static from the walkie talkie Jim had tucked into his chest plate – the walkie talkie that Toby was only supposed to contact once his mom was secured (or if Toby got in over his head).

 _"Jim! The, uh, the eagle has landed! And she has a plan!_ HOCUS POCUS!"

Jim frowned. 'Hocus pocus' was not an agreed-upon code phrase, but it wasn't as though Jim could pause his fight to fish the walkie talkie out and ask for clarification – all things which Toby _knew_ , so that had to mean that he believed Jim could figure out what he meant on his own…

A car horn honked, loudly and incongruously in the night, and Jim made the connection just in time to slam his eyes shut even as the other trolls around him turned to look at the source of the noise, and got the full luminosity of high beams to the face for their trouble.

Jim heard Bular snarl and Draal grunt, Scaarbach moan and whine. He made a snap decision about priorities and pivoted towards where he last remembered Bular being and squinted his eyes open the smallest possible crack. Everything looked washed out, almost flat blotches of light and dark in high contrast. Nevertheless, Bular was immediately recognizable, and Jim swung Daylight with all his strength. The long edge bit deep into Bular's side, just under where his ribs would be if he were human. Bular howled, his heavy fist blindly swatting Jim away, connecting with his shoulder and knocking him to the ground.

Draal, blinking and squinting – no better off than Bular at the high beam stunt, really – plowed into Bular with a full-body tackle. Bular's wounded side took the brunt of the hit and he went down hard. By now Jim's eyes had adjusted, so he saw the flash of light on Draal's axe as he raised it high, and brought it down with a cry that shook Jim to his core.

Bular went limp.

And then… a hush seemed to fall over the battlefield. Silence sharp enough that Jim could hear the crackle of Bular's flesh transforming into stone upon his death.

Scaarbach hissed a startled breath, and scurried away before Jim could even form the thought to go after him. Blinky and Aaarrrgghh skidded onto the scene, panting, evidently having dealt with their own changeling.

A car door slammed. Daylight's point drooped down, the sword limp in Jim's hand as he stared. Bular was… It was _over…  
_

"Jim!"

He looked up to see the most welcome sight his eyes had ever beheld. "Mom!" Casting his sword aside, he dashed into her embrace.

She murmured words of relief, of encouragement, of love in his ears and he stammered out apologies (which she dismissed as unnecessary) and clung to her tighter. Jim dropped to his knees, exhausted, and his mom mirrored him, neither breaking their hold even once. He was safe, and his mom was safe, and he could finally breathe properly again.

"Jimbo!" He looked up as Toby threw himself into the hug as well. "You got my message!"

Jim laughed, heedless of the tears in his eyes. "You're lucky; if it wasn't October, I don't think I would have caught the reference."

"But it _is_ October, ergo I am an awesome codemaster."

Then Blinky wrapped his arms around Jim and Toby, and Aaarrrgghh wrapped his arms around everyone, and Draal stood by and solemnly tried to thank Jim for allowing him to avenge his father's death, until Jim managed to snake a hand out of the web of arms to drag him into it as well.

* * *

 _A/N: Hey, remember that time Blinky listed possible disguises a changeling could have, and 'car salesman' was among them? ;D Bert the changeling got his name from one of the trolls in The Hobbit, and is there is no connection to Bertie_ *hawk screech* _from 3Below whatsoever._

 _Hey, remember that time Blinky started freaking out about a poster of a sunset? Good times_

 _("Let me alone, I have yet my legs left, and one arm. Tell the surgeon to make haste and get his instruments. I know I must lose my right arm, so the sooner it is off the better." I didn't actually know Nelson lost an arm when I started, I was just looking for a military leader to quote and didn't find anything suitable when I checked Napoleon and Alexander the Great; Nelson was my third try)_

IMPORTANT NOTE: There's just one more chapter left in this arc, and then I am going to take a planned hiatus from Metamorphosis (as opposed to the unplanned one that just concluded with the posting of this chapter). I've got other Trollhunters fics that have been simmering on the backburner, and I want to give them some attention before I get mired in the next arc of Don't Listen to Kafka, where we wave goodbye to canon and set off into unmapped territory.

I haven't decided yet whether to make that next arc part of Metamorphosis, or whether it should be it's own story (working title: Apoptosis), there are pros and cons to each; any thoughts?


	8. Epilogue

A/N: This chapter contains a POV shift partway through, which I only mention here because I don't think I've done that yet in this series and I don't want anyone to get confused ;) I don't think there's any chapter-specific warnings, but please let me know if I'm wrong about that

There was a time I genuinely believed I could have this chapter out at the start of September, in time for this series' one-year anniversary. ah. ha ha.

That being said, I am quite happy that I took the time to get this chapter _right_ , because it's come a long way from were it was in September, and is much better for it, I think

* * *

 _"Believing in progress does not mean believing that any progress has yet been made."_ \- Franz Kafka

* * *

Jim woke up from a dreamless sleep, still feeling tired and sore all over. He groaned, and wriggled out from under his blankets just enough to read the time on his clock: 7:32 AM. Trying to do the mental math to figure out how much sleep he'd gotten was slow going, not helped along by the fact that he suspected the answer was Not Enough.

After the battle, Blinky had walked him and Toby to their homes while Aaarrrgghh carried Strickler to the hospital, with Jim's mom riding on his back. Jim had done little except pace the living room under Blinky's watchful eyes until his mom got home sometime after midnight, having driven their car back from the hospital parking lot where it had been waiting since her kidnapping. She'd passed along a message to Blinky to meet Aaarrrgghh at the museum, where Draal had gone ahead to guard the Bridge, because apparently that was where Killahead had been this whole time, and Jim had been ready to pull his hair out when he learned that, he could not believe it.

Blinky had left for the museum, and Jim and his mom had each spent a significant amount of time trying to encourage the other to rest and recover, eventually reaching a compromise where both of them collapsed together on the couch to wait for news. They'd gotten it, in a call from Blinky sometime around… 2 AM? Maybe? Jim remembered that he'd been running on fumes and the absolute knowledge that he would not be able to sleep until he knew that everyone had gotten back to their homes safely.

Blinky had said that with help from Trollmarket, they had successfully recovered the Bridge - all but the Eyestone, which was missing, probably taken by Scaarbach immediately after he fled the car lot in the wake of Bular's death. A mixed success, then, but the general feeling all around was that they'd come out ahead. Especially Draal, who, having avenged his father, now had his banishment lifted - which was a bit odd, to Jim's thinking, since Kanjigar's death had had nothing to do with his exile from Trollmarket in the first place, but Jim supposed that if Honor were like a currency, it could be spent in one place and gained back for something else. He should probably ask Blinky about that, before he got caught up in any more honor duels.

Jim stretched, still under his blankets and utterly disinclined to get out of bed ever again, but, since that was an unattainable dream, he eventually pushed his way to his feet and shook the last vestiges of sleep from his limbs. The motion made him wince - his left shoulder was knotted up something awful, probably from when he'd landed on it poorly during the fight.

First things first. Given all the sweat, blood, and tears he'd shed last night (mostly sweat and very little blood, fortunately, though he was sure he'd be feeling some of his bruises for at least a week), a shower was his top priority; everything else could wait. He ran the water as hot as it would go, ignoring the fact that a normal human probably couldn't withstand the temperature and relaxing under the spray for several minutes, doing nothing except to let the white noise wash away his noisy thoughts and worries. He opened his mouth, allowing the water to quench his acute thirst, and once he'd drunk his fill, he realized he was quite hungry as well - two basic needs he'd been too exhausted to take care of the night before.

He squeezed a dollop of shampoo into his hand, but disappointingly it did not taste as good as it smelled. Jim sighed and worked the remaining shampoo into his hair, resolved to ignore his hunger and continue taking his time with his shower. He rarely took self-indulgent showers - California had entered its ongoing, record-breaking drought when he was just eleven years old - but he felt he could justify the excess just this once, considering he'd taken fewer showers than he really should have these past couple months.

He paused in his scrubbing as the larger significance of that train of thought penetrated. He… really hadn't been taking care of himself, lately. He tried running his fingers through his hair, but even even lathered in shampoo, the tangles were stubborn and would not be teased out. That was... really not great. He tried to remember the last time he'd combed his hair, and came up blank - for too long, he'd relied on the glamor mask to give him perpetually neatly parted hair, and now that was coming back to bite him.

When he stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped around his waist, he turned towards the fogged-up mirror. Then, hesitantly, and for the first time in a long, long time, he wiped it clear.

He stared - and while he could feel his heart rate pick up a bit, it wasn't anything near as bad as when Scaarbach had mimicked his face.

His face looked a lot more... _him_ than it had seemed to last night, but that could be because this time it _was_ actually his face, and not a changeling copycat's. His (lack of) nose was both as bad as, and much better, than he was expecting. 'As bad as,' because, as he suspected from Toby's comments, he did bear quite a bit of resemblance to Voldemort, slit nostrils in a flat plane.

'Not as bad' because… because he was used to Blinky, and Aaarrrgghh, and Draal and even Vendel, and all the other trolls he'd ever met, so his nose didn't look _that_ foreign to him. It still didn't register as _his nose_ , but maybe, with enough time, it could. He even had, if he looked closely, faint lines in his skin, a kite-shaped outline, the skin within the region faintly greener than the rest of the blue-gray skin of his face. So he was comfortably confident that his nose was still 'developing,' and he wouldn't be a Tom Riddle lookalike forever.

The nose was really where any semblance to fictional Dark Lords ended. Nowhere had He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named been described as having prominent brow ridges, tapered ears, or tusks. (Calling them tusks was an exaggeration, at this point. The tips of his lower canines just barely peeked over the top of his lip). His eyes looked the same, mostly - same blue, same familiar shape. The whites were rather yellowish, though, in a way that made him look sickly.

He didn't know how long he spent, staring. He wasn't sure what he expected - an epiphany, or a revelation, or - But it was just him. In the mirror. Looking weirdly trollish, and a bit bruised, but, but it was not the revolting image that he'd built up in his imagination. Which was a realization that should have been major but really just felt lowkey, his emotional capacity wrung out and exhausted after everything that had happened.

His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since lunch the previous day. Time to finish getting ready and face the day. He picked up a comb, determined to do something about the tangled bird's nest that was his hair, but it broke three of its teeth the first time he tried running it through his hair. He fished out one of his mom's hair brushes from the bathroom cabinet, but it fared no better, sticking like a burr to his head and not budging until he'd carefully lifted it out.

He went back to trying to use his fingers to untangle it, as he had earlier, wincing as his fingernails snagged _badly_ in a knot, and it was a very stressful half minute before he managed to work his hand free, scratching up his own scalp in the process.

He winced. His fingernails were… _really_ long. He knew why - a little over halfway up, there was a clear dividing line where his older, human nail ended and his dark, stony troll nails started. Every time he trimmed his nails, the amount of human nail left dwindled, so he'd just… stopped trimming them altogether.

That, that had to change. Never Cutting His Nails Again was completely unsustainable (and, knowing himself as well as he did, potentially self-destructive). So he carefully clipped away his nails until they were an appropriate length (until nothing but a sliver of humanity remained).

Then he went to file them smooth and - _erk!_ no no no, bad idea, nails-on-chalkboard bad idea. He didn't know what the appropriate tool to file stone was, but his stainless-steel nail file was Not It.

He took a deep, steadying breath, and then another, before feeling the edges of his nails with the pad of his thumb. They were fine, really, they weren't so bad (and were much better than they had been, objectively speaking). Feeling like he was on a roll this morning, he squeezed some toothpaste onto his brush, opened his mouth wide, and started to brush. He flushed with shame when he worked a piece of chicken skin out from between his back molars - that had to have been there at least three days, if it was from the last time they'd had chicken for dinner. Jim sincerely hoped it wasn't from the time _before_ that.

He spit out the toothpaste, rinsed his mouth, and made his best attempt at flossing - it didn't seem to do much, given how widely spaced his teeth were in his expanding jaw. He peered at his face again. Normally this was the point in his routine when he used to apply his acne scrub, but there didn't seem to be much need for it, and what if it made his face blotchy, like grease stains on a pizza box? Could that happen to stone? Better to leave it alone.

With one last look at his unmanageable hair, he sighed and left the bathroom in search of food.

* * *

Barbara was nursing her second cup of coffee of the morning when Jim came downstairs, sans mask. She'd managed a couple of fretful hours of sleep, and when she'd woken up in the pre-dawn hours she'd been unable to fall back asleep. She'd already called in sick at the hospital (it wasn't worth the risk to her patients, showing up worn out and distracted), and was making good headway on Mukherjee's new book; she thought she might be able to finish by tomorrow. It had been a while since she'd spent a whole day just reading, but today it was just what the doctor ordered.

She hesitated before she tucked in a bookmark and set it aside, unsure whether giving Jim her full, undivided attention would make too big a deal out of the fact that he _wasn't wearing his mask_ and make him self-conscious. It wouldn't have sat right with her, though, to pretend to not notice him entering the room. Besides, after last night, there was a lot to talk about.

His hair was still damp from his shower, and he was dressed in sweatpants and a loose-fitting sweatshirt, one of her old UC Davis ones. She could see that a couple of contusions from the fight had bloomed purple overnight; one particularly large bruise at his throat stretched between the stone-blue skin of his chin and the still flesh-colored skin of his neck, but when she'd given him a post-battle checkup last night, she'd determined it was not too deep and was unlikely to affect his breathing.

"Morning, sunshine." The endearment slipped out without a second thought, and Barbara immediately started mentally berating herself, because ack, no, sunlight was rather a sore topic at the moment.

Jim didn't seem to mind, though, or at least, he didn't notice. "Morning, Mom. Did you already have breakfast?"

"I did. You must be starving, though. Here, you sit down and rest, let me fix you up something."

"Ah. Well." He fidgeted with the hem of his shirt for a moment before he gave in and dropped onto the couch. "Toast, to start with. Really, it's no trouble, I can - "

 _"Rest."_ she emphasized, giving his shoulder a squeeze as she passed. Jim typically didn't make much of an effort when he was just cooking for himself, so she wasn't worried about keeping him from some much-needed kitchen time.

Barbara dropped two pieces of dark rye bread into the toaster and pushed the lever down without adjusting the knob at all (Jim had it set just where he wanted it, and woe betide anyone who changed it). Once they popped up, she smeared a generous portion of what Toby had dubbed 'hummumus' on each, a blend of hummus (the chick-pea spread) and humus (the organic soil). A good source of both protein and carbon.

Jim fell on the sandwiches ravenously, polishing them both off in less than a minute. Wordlessly, she offered him an egg, and he did not bother to ask her whether it was cooked or not before he popped the whole thing in his mouth. Barbara was pleasantly surprised.

Jim licked his lips, and then quirked an eyebrow at her. "So. Last night, huh?"

Barbara gave a wry laugh. "Understatement of the year."

"How's Strickler? You said, last night, you took him to the hospital - what have you heard?"

"He came out of surgery four hours ago, no major complications. His arm was beyond saving, but he'll make a fully recovery otherwise. He'll probably be sent home in a week or so - I don't know how being a changeling might affect his recovery."

Jim stiffened. He slowly pulled his hands into his lap and began to wring them together. "Ah. Yeah. Speaking of." He floundered, clearly struggling with what he wanted to say. "There's something you need to know. About, about changelings. But. First, um. Would you, would you give me a haircut? Please?"

Well, that came completely out of left field - not that it wasn't warranted, she could see that plain as day.

"Of course I can." She'd given him all his haircuts throughout grade school, a cost-saving measure when she'd been in med school. Investing in a good-quality set of scissors for the purpose had paid for itself many times over in saved trips to the barber, and during that time she'd had enough practice to get fairly decent at it (the less said of The Second Grade Bowlcut, the better).

The steps were still familiar, even if it had been a couple years. She pinned a large black garbage bag around his shoulders and sat him down on a stool in the middle of the kitchen. (She also went to fetch a floor lamp for extra lighting. Normally she would have opened up the window to let in more natural light, but, well.) Jim shuffled into the kitchen, clearly self-conscious, though Barbara suspected that was mostly about being a teenage boy and getting his hair cut by his mother.

Jim's hair, still damp from his shower, was curling slightly as it was wont to do. It was also, quite frankly, a horrendous mess. Nothing for it but to grab the detangler comb from her kit and attack the tips first. She braced as well as she could to avoid yanking, but some amount of tugging was unavoidable. There was a mat of hair over his left ear that she probed delicately with the teeth of the comb, wondering if she'd have to cut it out. Probably. She went back to untangling the hair around the mat, and accidentally pulled harder than she meant to.

"Sorry," Jim murmured.

"That's my line." She looked at him curiously. "What are _you_ sorry for?"

"It's my fault my hair is such a disaster."

"Jim, sweetheart, you have nothing you need to apologize for, understand?"

Jim shrugged noncommittally. Barbara stopped combing his hair and waited until he made eye contact. "Self-care isn't something you owe other people. It's not an obligation. You do what you can, when you can." Her breath hitched, overwhelmed with the love she had for her son. "You've done really well eating right. And I'm so, so proud of you for taking this next step." She ruffled his hair playfully. "We'll have you looking spiffy in no time."

Jim grinned shyly, "You and I remember second grade very differently."

She thwapped him lightly with the comb. "And that's enough sass out of you, mister. Head up straight, I need to get your bangs." In truth, Jim could keep sassing her 'til kingdom come, she wouldn't mind.

Getting all his hair untangled so she could even begin to cut it was a long, slow process (and require three mats to be removed outright). Finally, she was able to run a fine-toothed comb through everything. She tipped his head forward to start at the back, and Jim winced as her hand brushed against a lump that _wasn't_ his developing horn buds.

"Oh, did you get hit?" She gently probed the area with her fingers. It felt swollen, and like his bruises, had probably grown more noticeable overnight. She didn't like to think that she'd easily overlook a knock to the head when she was checking him for injuries last night.

"S'fine. I dodged his hammer first and got in a pretty good shot on his elbow - he didn't like that - and then he - " Jim abruptly cut himself off. Barbara waited for him to continue, but he only sat in straight-backed silence.

"And then he…?" she prompted, picking her scissors back up.

Jim started to turn his head before he caught himself and held still. "Uh. He kicked me. In the chest. The armor's good about dispersing the force of blows, it didn't hurt, but it knocked me down and I hit my head on a loose tire." As he was speaking, he seemed to keep trying to sneak glances at her through his bangs. "Draal showed me this cool move for getting back on your feet, it totally worked and I came up swinging."

That's her boy. "Way to go, slugger. I'm proud of you."

"You are?"

The genuine surprise in his voice hurt. Why would he think…? She had to pause in her work to grapple with everything she was suddenly feeling.

And then, it dawned on her. Ever since she'd found out, she had made clear through her reactions that blow-by-blow accounts were not welcome. Details were only to be given upon request, and never volunteered. Jim's surprise was probably specific to her complimenting his fighting technique, and not a general reaction to her expressing pride in him (she hoped). In fact, she couldn't remember any other time she'd commented positively on the hunting aspect of trollhunting.

She wasn't on tenterhooks anymore, waiting for the worst to happen, feeling utterly ineffectual. She'd witnessed a troll fight up close, and she hadn't run, and she'd been able to _help_. They'd tried to use her against her son, but she'd made her own way to freedom. Hearing Jim recount a past fight wasn't scary anymore, not the way it used to be.

"Always." She pressed a kiss to the back of his head. "I am always proud of you. My hero."

Jim made a small happy humming sound. Barbara dabbed at her eyes and turned back to lighter topics. "So, what kind of haircut do you want? Your usual, or… do you want to leave it longer over your ears?" She was already trying to figure out what to do about the two circular bald spots that were not yet horns. Part the hair straight down the middle for a double comb-over? No, Jim would hate that.

"No, my usual's fine."

"Probably for the best. I still have to even it up from where that mat had to be cut out - in all likelihood it'll be a bit shorter than you're used to, unless you want it to look like when you got gum stuck in it and - "

"Yes, fine! No need to revisit the past!"

For the next five minutes Barbara made good progress on trimming his hair, working in silence. Then -

"So. That thing I said you needed to know, about changelings."

"Mmph?" Barbara was holding several hair clips in her mouth as she worked, dividing his hair into sections.

"Sometimes, not often but sometimes, they have kids with humans. And those kids… Mom, Dad was a changeling."

And so the story came out. What Walter knew, and what Blinky guessed, based on what trolls were like growing up. The expected timeframe, and how much longer before Jim could walk in the sunlight again. The complete lack of a cure, because a cure was not necessary.

Throughout his explanation, Barbara just kept snip-snip-snipping his hair, wrestling with her gut reactions. She had to keep her temper. But beneath the surface, she was simmering with outrage. How could he not have told his son, Jim deserved to know! He left them, without a word, and he would have known what would happen to Jim one day, what Jim would go through.

Old, ugly doubts bubbled to the surface once more - were there signs that she missed? Could she have pressed James on the things he avoided talking about, demanded answers from him - demanded an emotional investment from him?

As quickly as they came, the doubts fizzled away. Their origins were in the distant past, and she'd already dealt with them a long time ago. After all, she'd already known James was a scumbag, knowing this didn't change anything. Though there might yet be a painting or two in her near future, to work out her residual frustrations.

"... Mom?"

"All done." She set the scissors down and gave him a visual once-over to make sure everything was even. "Tell me what you think."

He growled, just a little bit, turning around on the stool to face her. "I'm more interested in what _you_ think."

Barbara felt her heart clench. "I think," she began, pulling him into her arms, "That you'll always be my precious baby boy. And that what I want most in this world is for you to be _happy_ , Jim. You've had a lot to deal with, and I mean a lot, and I don't know if I'll ever be able to fully appreciate exactly what it's been like for you. You're a teenager, a growing adolescent, and that's hard enough to cope with without trolls and magic and swords. But I could not be prouder of the young man you've become." She squeezed him, overwhelmed with her love for him, and he buried his face in her shoulder. "If being half-changeling means that you'll have control over your appearance, that you'll look however you want to, then that can only be a good thing in my books. Whether you decide someday you want horns and scales or, or freckles and a green mohawk," - he huffed a laugh and pulled away to look her in the eyes - "or if you want to keep what's familiar," she brushed a lock of hair off his forehead, "No matter what, Jim, I will always love you, with all my heart."

"Mom…"

The tears that had been burning in Barbara's eyes began to flow free in earnest, and Jim threw himself back into her arms with a sob. She held him while he shook (or was it the other way around?) They held onto each other, and they cried, and they basked in the warmth and security of their love. At long last, they pulled apart.

"I meant," Jim sniffed conspicuously, and dried his tears on his sleeve, his voice shaky, "I meant… what do you think… think about my haircut." He managed to keep a straight face for a full ten seconds before he cracked, his watery laugh quickly devolving into deep, rib-shaking guffaws.

Hope bloomed in her chest. Laughing, she reached out and ruffled his hair into disarray. "C'mere, you rascal!" she switched her target to his known ticklish spots (stomach, neck, inside of his elbows). Jim eeped and darted out of the way, ducking behind the couch. Barbara gave chase.

Things were going to be just fine.

* * *

A/N: The book Barbara mentions is a 2016 NYT bestseller, _The Gene: An Intimate History_ , by Siddhartha Mukherjee.

California's longest-ever drought (376 weeks) finally ended in March 2019, but that's still over two years away from when this story takes place.

I wasn't able to work it into the text, but I headcanon that Mane 'n Tail™ shampoo is ideal for Jim's troll hair, in no small part because it _is_ marketed for humans to use, you can find it in grocery stores alongside all the other products, so he doesn't have to be self-conscious about using it. Troll hairs are almost certainly thicker than human hairs; Jim genuinely needs horse shampoo, designed for hair that three times thicker than human.

For a cell bio perspective on Jim's transformation (with diagrams!) I made a tumblr post - I'm archaeopter-ace over there, if you search my blog for "kafka" you'll find it and other meta related to this series ;P

I learned too late to work it into the story that there is in fact a real medical condition that could have sorta explained Jim's elongated jaw in _Autoeponym_ : mandibular prognathism. However, given that it is exceptionally rare, and only occurs in adults (in adolescents, this particular pituitary problem presents as gigantism), it's not unreasonable that no one at Arcadia Oaks medical center would have heard of it, or thought to connect it to Jim. Similarly, Jim's loss of nose _could_ be explained by late congenital syphilis, but then Barbara would have also had to have syphilis and Jim would have additional symptoms and yeah. I don't regret not bringing that up in-fic.

So, here we are at the end of Metamorphosis! This is not the end of this series! However, this felt like a good stopping point for me, since now that the Battle of Two Buicks is over, this AU really leaves canon behind and ventures off in its own direction, and that's going to take me longer to work out the outline for.

In addition, I want to put this series on hiatus so that I can dive into all the things I've been putting on the backburner. (I'd like to tease my WIPs here, but that would feel too much like an obligation to complete them, and that would ultimately hurt my creative process more than it would help, I think. You can expect some crossovers from me, I'll say that much - I love me a good crossover!)

Thank you everyone who's faved, commented, recced, or just lurked silently on this fic! This is to date the longest multi-chapter fic I have ever completed, and I couldn't have done it without you! 3


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